


Of Dubious and Questionable Memory

by diandrahollman



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, Amnesia, Anal Sex, Benedict Cumberbatch/Tom Hiddleston - Freeform, Bisexual Sherlock, Demisexual Sherlock, Drugs, M/M, Married Couple, Mystery, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rimming, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sick Sherlock, Slash, Switch Sherlock, Unreliable Narrator, Vulnerable Sherlock, tom hiddleston fancast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 55,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diandrahollman/pseuds/diandrahollman
Summary: Every day I wake up not remembering how I got here or who this man is who claims he's my husband. I cannot trust my own memory. There is one thing of which I am reasonably certain: John Watson is dead. Isn't he?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am so nervous about this one. This started out as a sort of "50 First Dates" Johnlock story and morphed into this psychological Girl on the Train/Before I Go To Sleep fusion-ish thing. It is very plot driven, but so far I am enjoying the challenge of writing it. It is enormously fun writing these characters. It's a work in progress, but I have the entire thing mapped out in my head, so hopefully I'll have it finished by the time season five airs.
> 
> Henry is an amalgam of several characters from ACD cannon, with an original modern spin. In my little headcannon he is played by Tom Hiddleston. This takes place sometime after season 3.
> 
> Thank you to Kate and Emilio for their invaluable help and support with this story. Also, big thank you to gin200168 for helping with the sciency stuff so I don't sound like too much of an idiot.

I wake up with John's name on my lips.

The details of the dream fade almost immediately, but the sense of danger and the desperate need to get to him linger for a while. I lie quietly on the bed for a moment in order to reorient myself and allow the sickening fear to dissipate. Rationally, I know it was just a dream, but it had felt so REAL. More like a memory than the random neural firings that usually constitute dreams.

Once I am calm and fully awake I realize that I am not in my room - or even in my flat. I take quick stock of my surroundings. The bedroom is sparsely furnished, plain and clean and belongs to someone who, until recently, was sharing the bed with me. The smell on the rumpled sheets confirms that this person is definitely male and definitely not John.

I am alarmed to discover that I cannot remember how I came to be here. I can only assume I went home with some stranger I met in a club last night. The ache I feel between my legs as I move to sit up leaves no doubt as to the activities we engaged in after that.

I stumble to the toilet adjoining the bedroom, splash some water on my face, and take a moment to go over the physical evidence left on my own body.

I am naked, but I am clean. So obviously one of us had been sober enough to think of taking care of the post-coital mess. I have stubble burns and faint bite marks decorating my neck and the insides of my thighs. I have light bruises around my wrists and scattered across my torso and deep, dark ones in the shape of hands wrapped around my hips. I reach tentatively between my legs and feel for what I can't see. The skin around my anus is swollen and sore and something wet spills on my fingers as I prod at it. I yank my hand away and stare at the trace of semen in horror. I had unprotected sex with a stranger. Never - even at the height of my cocaine addiction - have I been so reckless. 

I scrub my hands clean as thoughts and theories race wildly through my mind. Drugs would explain my inability to remember anything, but had I taken them consciously or...

"Will," a voice calls from behind the door, disrupting my thoughts. A tall, slim man with dark hair and soft features tentatively pushes it open. "Are you all right, darling?"

Will? Did I use my given name with him as some sort of disguise?

I do a quick cold reading on him as he steps into the bathroom. Whatever he is, he is not a rapist. He is looking at me with far too much kindness and adoration. Except beyond his physical features and his obvious care for me I can't really deduce much. He is definitely the man I had sex with last night. Although he is fully dressed, I can see the edge of a bruise peeking from beneath the rolled up sleeve of his silk shirt. More importantly, his smell matches the one on the bed sheets I woke up in.

His ejaculate is still inside me.

I shake this last thought off and focus on his left hand, which is curled around a glass of water. A simple gold band surrounds his ring finger. I had unprotected sex with a married man? 

"You don't know who I am," he says gently as though he can read the direction of my thoughts.

"Should I?"

He looks a bit disappointed, but not surprised. "Sometimes you do. You've had good days and bad days since we changed medicines."

My eyes narrow. What the hell is he on about? "Medicine?"

He holds out his right hand to reveal three white pills. "I was just bringing your morning dose. Plus some paracetamol." He gestures toward the bruises on my hips. "I'm afraid I got a little carried away last night. Although in my defense, you were a bit gasping for it and you gave almost as good as you got. I already took some of these myself."

I run through the many questions in my mind - eliminating the ones that might compromise me should this prove to really be some sort of con - and settle on the most important one. "Where is John?"

His face falls and he sighs. He sets the glass and tablets on the counter beside the sink and reaches for me, hesitating only a moment when I instinctively flinch. He carefully frames my face between his hands, tilting my head with the faintest pressure of his fingertips until I am looking directly into his blue/green eyes.

"Sherlock...sweetheart. John Watson is dead."


	2. Chapter 1, Day 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to Kate and Emilio, as well as everybody who takes the time to read and leave kudos/comments!

Minutes later I sit at the kitchen table, wrapped in a dressing gown I've never seen before even though it is worn and smells of me, staring at the pill the man who says he is my husband - Henry - has set beside a glass of juice. I took the paracetamol already, but only because I recognized that's what it really was. I don't want to take anything I can't readily identify without further explanation, which Henry promised to give me when he coaxed me from the bathroom.

I wince as he sets a plate of toast and beans before me and mumble "'m not hungry." 

He kisses the top of my head. "I know. You never are. But you have to eat, love."

This more than anything so far lends credibility to his claim that he is my husband. He treats me like a doting spouse. But it still doesn't make any sense. 

He sits beside me and rests a hand on my arm. "What day do you think it is?"

"Sunday."

"No, darling. I mean the date."

What difference could that possibly make? "I don't know. June something."

He smiles again. "Well, it is Wednesday. And it's actually the tenth of February."

I stare at him silently, waiting for an explanation.

His thumb begins absently rubbing my arm through the dressing gown. "You were in a car accident eight months ago. I was the doctor who treated you. You were suffering from some fairly significant head trauma and I initially diagnosed you with a severe concussion, but it became clear after about a week that you were having persistent difficulties with your short term memory. You could retain information throughout the course of the day, but each time you fell asleep your mind seemed to reset itself and you woke up unable to remember anything that had happened since the accident."

"Amnesia."

He nods. "A very rare form of anterograde amnesia. So rare, in fact, that you offered to let me write a series of papers for medical journals tracking your progress. I have two so far if you want to read them."

"I've already read them, haven't I?"

He smiles. "Yes. You sometimes offer your own research and thoughts on possible treatments. Some days you know who I am and can recall some of the events of the past few months and some days - like today - you don't even remember the accident."

The dream. I close my eyes and try to remember the dream I'd been having when I woke this morning. The details still elude me, but now I think I can recall broken glass and John's face covered in blood. "John was in the car," I whisper.

Henry's other hand rests on my back. "He didn't make it to hospital. His injuries were too severe. I'm sorry."

I feel tears prick at my eyes and wonder how many times I've had this exact discussion. How many times have I lost John only to do it all over again the next day? How many more times will I feel as if I only saw him yesterday? How can I even begin to properly mourn him if I can never remember losing him in the first place? I pick up the pill Henry had identified as my medicine and roll it between my fingers in an effort to distract myself from the painful tightness in my chest.

"We've tried several different medications and therapies," Henry says, again demonstrating his intimate knowledge of me by seeming to read my thoughts as if I had spoken them out loud. "This one seems to be most promising so far. Just last month you went forty eight hours before you started losing memories again. I had hoped...last night...that that might happen again."

Possible signs of improvement might explain why he was willing to put up with me in such a condition. "Why am I not wearing a ring?"

"Oh..." He lets go of me to reach into his trouser pocket. "I almost forgot." He pulls out a gold band identical to his own. "You sometimes take it off at night. You say it's one less thing to try to deduce if you relapse overnight. It's easier if you think we're just lovers initially." He gestures to my left hand. "May I?"

I hold out my hand and let him slip the ring on my finger. There's a sense of rightness to it that I don't quite understand. As if I had been missing its weight without realizing it. As if having it back in place completes an important part of the puzzle. 

He lifts my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles gently. "There was never in this world a man who loved with a more whole hearted love," he murmurs almost to himself.

"I take it we're newly wed then."

He laughs and I'm struck by how genuine that laugh is, how relaxed. He looks at me with the same affection and wonder John often wore when I said something particularly clever. "Guess I deserved that. Yes. We've been married for three months. You were opposed to the idea of marriage, of course, but I convinced you eventually."

The kettle whistles. He kisses my hand again, repeats his instructions for me to eat and goes to pour us both tea. "There's honey on the table," he adds this time. "You usually like to put it on your toast."

I reach for the small jar sitting beside the salt and pepper pots before I'm even aware of the motion, as if my body had responded without my conscious thought. I frown at the unmarked jar that I simultaneously recognize and have never seen before. "Is this fresh?"

"I think so. You said you collected it last week."

"I collected it?"

He comes back with two sturdy mugs full of hot tea and sets one beside my plate. "You said you always wanted to move out to the country and tend bees when you retired. Cressington Park isn't exactly the country, but you are able to keep a small hive out back."

"Retired?"

He sips at his tea cautiously. "A bit young, but in your condition... consider it a temporary retirement until you are better. You still occasionally submit anonymous tips to law enforcement websites, which you think I don't know about." He smiles at me fondly over the rim of his cup. "But you tire easily and you get headaches often. It's usually enough for you to spend the day occupied with your bee keeping and catching up on the last few months. Sometimes you go for a walk...talk to the neighbor." He points to one side of the house, then the other as he adds "that one. THAT one hates you. I don't know what you did to offend him in the two months we've lived here, but it's probably best to avoid him for a while."

I spoon honey onto a slice of toast and take a bite, holding the thick, sweet syrup on my tongue for a moment before swallowing. My stomach rumbles and I realize I am a bit hungry after all. "Why did you call me Will?"

"You said you wanted to start over and leave your old life in London behind. Being Sherlock Holmes was too painful after everything that happened."

Even though I don't remember exactly what happened, I can recognize the truth in this. The mere mention of my name stirs up a vague, uncomfortable feeling that borders on nausea. It happened the first time he said it too, but I had associated the feeling then with the news about John.

Oh. Thinking about my name and my life in London makes me think about John. And thinking about John and the accident is too painful.

"I assume I took your name then?"

"Not at first, but yes. Your name is William Peters now, legally speaking."

'Dull,' a voice in the back of my head grumbles. But hearing the name doesn't bring the same discomfort. In fact, it feels right somehow. I take another bite of toast and reach for my tea, momentarily surprised to find that it has already been sweetened exactly the way I like it. 'Of course he would know how you take your tea. He knows everything else.'

Henry finishes his own mug and makes a move to stand up. "I have to go to work. Your mobile is on the counter by the laptop."

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"Already finished. You were tired after last night. I thought I'd let you sleep in a bit." He puts his mug in the dishwasher and fishes his car keys from a bowl on the counter by the aforementioned laptop and mobile. "These are labeled in case you need to lock up." He slides a folder out from beneath the laptop. "You usually like to start with this." He hands it to me and leans down to kiss me. He tastes like tea and mint. "You should take your medicine before you forget."

Oh. The tablet. I reach for it automatically and hesitate only a second before swallowing it with the nearly forgotten glass of juice. I'm still not entirely certain what it is, but I am sure it will not hurt me. Henry's obvious love for me would preclude any desire to do me harm.

"Good man," he praises, sweeping a lock of hair back from my forehead tenderly and pressing a kiss to my temple. "My number's in the contacts if you need to call me."

I had a brief, pathetic desire to beg him not to leave. I quickly dismissed it as some ridiculous side effect of my condition. I had so many more questions - which he likely knew the answers to. But I could find most of them myself. Isn't that what he said I spent at least part of my days doing?

I open the folder as Henry walks out the door and read the top page while I finish my toast. It is a handwritten note - my handwriting - discolored by a tea stain and slightly ragged at the edges from repeated handling. 'Your name is William,' it says. 'Henry is your husband. You were in a car accident in June of 2015. You have suffered from a rare form of amnesia ever since. Details of the disease and your progress with treating it are in a file on the desktop of your computer, along with observations and inspection data from your bee colony.'

There isn't much else in the slim folder. The articles Henry wrote about my medical case. A copy of our marriage certificate confirming my name as William Peters. And a printout of John's obituary. 'He is survived by his mother Evelyn, his sister Harriet, his wife Mary and their daughter.'

His wife Mary. I wonder if part of the reason I keep this particular evidence in such a prominent location is to remind myself that John wasn't mine to lose. To convince myself that I need to move on and try to forget him. 

Is that even possible?

The last paper in the folder is in handwriting that must be Henry's, identifying the locations of anything important like keys (which he already showed me), the name and phone number of the neighbor who doesn't hate me, his mobile number, the location of the fuse box and a list of the possible side effects of my medication that I should watch for and contact him immediately about any concerns.

The note ends with a more personal touch. 'Should you need to leave the house, the alarm code is the fiftieth through the fifty-fourth digits of pi. You were very adamant that we program it that way.' That sounded like a condition I would have made. 'I love you, my darling,' he finishes. 'Until my body ceases to draw breath.'

I wonder if we had a wedding ceremony. If we did, he almost certainly wrote his own vows. Maybe I'll find something about that on the laptop. At the very least, maybe I can find out how I came to marry a man I can't even remember meeting.

But first, I need to figure out where I keep my toothbrush and razor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote "there was never in this world a man who loved..." is taken (with slight adaptation) from Doyle's "The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax".


	3. Day 1, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I removed the "dubious consent" tag because I felt I might have been overly cautious about the ethics involved with Sherlock's condition. This will be discussed in future chapters and I will label those chapters accordingly.
> 
> Other characters and warnings will be added as needed. This chapter: Molly.

There is a file on the computer desktop simply titled "open me". It opens a popular note taking program and is full of notes, clippings, photographs, spreadsheets and links. I appear to have attempted to document as much of the past eight months as possible, although there are still several disconcerting gaps. 

The first entry in what could be loosely described as a journal is dated two weeks after the accident and reads much like the note in the folder, except it makes no mention of Henry. It isn't until several days later that I seem to take notice of the doctor treating me - and only then as the kind man whose head I had attempted to remove from his body. After that, my entries document both my frustrations with my lack of significant progress in reversing my memory loss and the slow evolution of our relationship. As my condition made living by myself difficult, he initially offered to be my live-in doctor and flatmate. 'Just like John used to be,' I think painfully. He reminded me every day of what had happened, made sure I took my medication and monitored the side effects, altering the dosage as necessary. 

Three months after the accident he kissed me for the first time. The entries over the next two months describe a strange courtship where the line between caretaker and lover shifted continually. One day he was nursing me through a migraine or what sounded like a particularly violent bout of food poisoning and the next we were having what sounded like very energetic sex. 'Henry warned me to be quieter when we make love,' one entry reads. 'The neighbor is beginning to complain about the noise.'

'Make love?' I think. 'Oddly sentimental, but I suppose that could be how HE worded it.'

Five months after the accident we were married. We spent a month vacation travelling through France and Italy. There is a whole folder devoted to pictures of this trip. Us kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower - his hand on my face to show off his ring. Me reclining in his arms in a Venetian gondola, his lips pressed to my temple. A picture he seemed to have secretly snapped of me drinking tea on a hotel balcony overlooking a peaceful lake, the Swiss Alps in the distance.

There are several more salacious images from inside various hotel rooms. Henry apparently took great pleasure in capturing our more intimate moments. There are candids of me both pre and post coital, in varying stages of arousal and dishevelment. But there are a few of him too, and I find myself particularly drawn to three of them. In one I obviously have caught him unaware as he is bending to retrieve something from the floor and presenting me with his bare arse. In another he is laying on the bed, post coital, a smear of seminal fluid decorating his abdomen, grinning at me adoringly. In the last, he is at the foot of the bed, one hand reaching toward my leg, possibly already wrapped around my ankle. His erect penis hangs heavily between his thighs and he is looking at me with such blatant hunger that a faint shiver goes through me. I wonder if he looked at me like that last night.

I have a sudden flash of memory; of Henry pinning me to the bed, thrusting inside me, that same almost dangerous look in his eyes.

"You like that, don't you," he growls. 

I shake my head and the image dispels. Was that a memory? Or is my brain just supplying possible scenarios to fill in the gaps based on the information I have? I look again at the bruises on my wrists. It certainly fits. What else can I remember?

I pore over my notes eagerly, searching for further data that might unlock details of my missing months. But I become increasingly suspicious of my ability to distinguish between real memories and fictional constructions, I read conversations between myself and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft and can practically hear their voices saying the words. Then I discover at least half of them in the text message history of my mobile. 

False memories.

I start a new entry for today and note this. I can see how I could easily spend an entire day doing this. My entire life has essentially become a puzzle for me to solve. The fact that I have to start my investigations into my recent past over every day is enormously frustrating, but that frustration is mitigated by the obvious evidence that I am getting better. Henry was right: my memory is improving by small increments. Although I am apparently still susceptible to fits of bizarre, irrational behavior. For example, when I consult my data on the bee hive I find indications that I have checked on it nearly every day of this past month. This probably wouldn't be suspicious in itself were it not for Henry's claim this morning that I had collected honey from it mere days ago. While that might not be completely bonkers in late winter, it couldn't be possible unless we inherited the colony from the previous owners of the house as bees don't usually produce an excess of honey for at least a year after introduction to the new hive.

I take a break from my reading about the past few months to locate a coat - just as unfamiliar as the dressing gown even though it is clearly mine - and go out to the back garden. The hive is a standard wooden box structure with a reflective lid on top. I walk around it, inspecting the exterior, running my hand along the warm wooden panels, feeling and hearing the hum of a healthy colony. It isn't brand new, but it doesn't seem old enough to be producing yet. 

I don't want to disturb the hive any more than that, so I return to my laptop and note my observations on the health of the colony in the appropriate place. I check the notes again and, while they don't specify the age of the hive or how I came to acquire it, they do indicate that I siphoned off a small amount of honey a week ago. 

The computer pings and an alert at the bottom of the screen informs me that Henry has sent me an email. I click on the notification and the message expands to fill the screen.

'Just finished listening to a dreadfully boring presentation from a drug rep for a product I am unlikely to ever have cause to prescribe. I couldn't stop thinking about how gorgeous you looked last night; how desperately you clung to me and demanded more, faster harder. If our activities hadn't left me sore this morning I would have been tempted to wake you and have another go. I don't think I will ever not ache for you. I long for those days in Venice when I could spend hours in bed just worshipping your body. I want you again tonight. Be very thorough when you shower today as I plan to be just as thorough when I eat you out.'

'That doesn't sound very sanitary,' I think. But the idea of him looking at me as hungrily as he did in that photograph makes me squirm a bit. The only other person who has ever looked at me with so much naked lust was Irene Adler.

I ignore the email for the time being, too caught up in my research to be distracted by my husband's lewdness.

'I saw John today,' a more recent note declares. 'In my mind palace. He was wearing Victorian clothing and had that ridiculous mustache that makes him look ancient. He was smoking my pipe and kept calling me "my boy". I asked him when he took up smoking. He said "ever since the Queen went above board".'

The strangeness of this incident is quickly overshadowed by the knowledge that I am using my mind palace in this bizarre reality I find myself in. Maybe I can find useful information there?

A tiny voice in the back of my mind notes that I can still find John there as well, but I brush it aside. John is dead. I have to let him go. I can't keep him in my mind palace forever.

I close my eyes and imagine myself standing before the familiar doors leading into my mind palace. I hesitate only a moment, unsure of the state I will find it in, before pushing them open and stepping through. 

I am in the morgue at St. Bart's. A body lies on one of the metal slabs. It is charred so far beyond recognition that it is near impossible to even tell what gender it had once been.

"Male," a familiar voice says and Molly Hooper appears at my side, a cigarette dangling from the fingers of her right hand. "He was in a car crash. The car caught fire before he could get out."

"Accident?"

"Still working that out." She takes a drag from the cigarette and slowly exhales, tendrils of smoke curling around her head. 

"Since when do you smoke?"

She shrugs and takes another drag. 

I look back at the body. "Do you have an ID yet?"

"You know who he is."

I nod, clenching my jaw to stop my lip from quivering. I had known since Molly first spoke who it must be. "Did he suffer?"

She slowly exhales a gentle stream of smoke, then inhales and opens her mouth to speak.

"Never mind," I interrupt. "Don't answer that." I don't want to know.

"You know this is wrong, don't you? You know this is not real. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't just move to the suburbs and play housewife."

The sick feeling returns, this time accompanied by a faint throbbing behind my eyes. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes," I mumble. "Not anymore."

I open my eyes again and take a moment to reorient myself before scrolling back to today's date in the journal. 

'Molly was in the mind palace this time. She was smoking. The body on her autopsy table was presumably once John's, but it was burned beyond recognition. She said that "this" is wrong and "not real". She said Sherlock Holmes wouldn't just run away to the suburbs to play housewife.'

I pause to massage the building ache in my temple. Then I let all my conflicting thoughts about my present circumstances pour out on the screen. 

'She's right, as always. What am I doing here? Was John's loss really so devastating that I had to move clear across England and change my entire identity to avoid facing it? I don't even believe in marriage, yet I find myself married to a man I barely know. Superficially, I recognize that he is a lot like John. He takes care of me willingly and with the patience of someone deeply and irrationally in love. I know some part of me loves Henry, if for no other reason than he represents what I never had with John: reciprocity of my unrequited longing. But if my condition proves permanent, his love will no doubt fade.'

The throbbing in my head can no longer be ignored. I stop typing so I can search for some painkillers. 

I settle back in front of the computer while I wait for the aspirin to hopefully relieve the pressure. I finally send Henry a reply to the effect of 'sorry, not tonight, I have a headache'.

A copy of John's autopsy report is clipped into the journal. It details high-impact injuries consistent with a car crash, but there is no indication the body was burned. I wonder if my subconscious added that false detail merely so I wouldn't have to face looking at John's lifeless corpse. When did I lose my ability to become detached where John is concerned?

On impulse, I pick up my mobile and send a text to John, simply saying 'I miss you.' I am not really surprised when the message history shows that this isn't the first time I have sent messages to John in the months since I acquired this new phone. I scroll through some of them. 'I'm sorry.' 'We're out of hydrochloric acid.' 'I almost said your name today while I was having sex with my husband.' 'I can't keep doing this, but I don't know how to forget you.' 'I love you.' 'I need more slides for the microscope.' 'Last night I dreamt that you kissed me and told me you forgive me.' 'For god's sake, are you really going to keep that ridiculous mustache?!'

I wince and add a note to the journal to for-God's-sake STOP sending texts to a dead man. I know I will ignore it though. Obviously I sometimes unconsciously send shopping requests to him, forgetting that he no longer lives with me.

The mobile buzzes on the table, startling me. For a moment I think maybe there was a mistake and it is John ringing back. But it's Henry. I chastise myself as I answer. 

"Scale of one to ten," he says. "How bad is the headache?"

"I took aspirin before it became unbearable. Maybe a four now."

"So it's getting better. That's good. Are you experiencing any other symptoms? Dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea?"

"No."

I can hear the relief in his voice. "Okay. It sounds like it's just a headache. You should take a break from that computer. Go for a walk. Have a bath. There's some herbal tea in the cupboard next to the sink. You always say it helps. If you're still hurting when I come home I can give you a massage."

Molly was right. I am playing housewife. And I am a very spoiled housewife at that. Although tea does sound lovely. "I'll be fine."

"Mmm." I hear papers rustle faintly on his end. 

"How did you propose," I find myself blurting suddenly. "I don't remember and I don't see anything in my notes." It's a strange gap in the narrative of our relationship.

He chuckles. "Well, that's probably because it wasn't my best romantic gesture. I didn't even plan it. We had just finished a rather spectacular bout of lovemaking and I couldn't stop touching you...kissing you. I realized I couldn't bear the thought of not spending the rest of my life with you."

"I was already living - and sleeping - with you. We hardly needed a contract."

"No, probably not. It just makes everything easier, especially given your condition, if we are legal."

The logic of this is sound. I had no doubt he could use his credentials as a doctor to gain access to me should I be taken into hospital, but nothing could cut through red tape faster than a wedding ring.

"I know the disdain you have for the institution of marriage," he adds. "But I love being able to call you my husband. I love having a constant reminder on my finger that it is my legal right. I love knowing that you are wearing one as well, even if I have to remind you to put it on every morning. I love being able to let the whole world know that I am yours and you are mine."

I have a sudden memory of Henry looming over me, growling "you are *mine*!" It sends a brief spike of fear through me. But is it real or another false construct? Without proper context I can't be sure. 

"I have to get back to work. You rest. Take care of yourself. And remember what I said about being thorough in the bath."

"But..."

"I'm sure your headache will be long forgotten by then," he continues confidently, heading off my protest. "If not, my understanding is that the endorphins produced by orgasm are excellent for treating headaches."

I grunt, frustrated by my apparent inability to argue with him. It doesn't help that he's right.

He chuckles softly. "Just trust me, okay darling? I love you."

I hesitate, wondering if he expects me to return the sentiment. 

"It's okay, sweetheart. I know."

I hang up and add all the relevant details from the conversation to my journal. The proposal, my impressions of Henry's romantic nature and possible possessiveness and the odd, possibly false memory. 'I don't know why I can't bring myself to say the words to him,' I conclude.

I close the lid on the laptop and massage my temples. The headache has mostly gone, but there is still a lingering, annoying throb.

Tea, I remember. Tea and a hot bath. Maybe then I can try exploring the mind palace for more clues.


	4. Day 1, Part 3

The tea does help. As does the bath, although accidentally aggravating the still-tender scar from my head injury while washing my hair did set me back for a bit. 

When I try to explore my mind palace a bit more I find myself in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, listening to her prattle about her ex-husband and John and love in general. 

"But this young doctor of yours...what's his name? He reminds me of my husband. So charming and full of passion. And the way he looks at you...like you are his whole world." She sighs. "He used to look at me like that too when we were first married. He could barely keep his hands off me. I remember this one time on our honeymoon when he..."

"Is something burning," I interrupt, pointing to the stove where wisps of smoke are beginning to curl around the oven door, grateful for the distraction.

Mrs. Hudson makes loud, displeased noises as she rushes to pull a blackening cake from the oven. "Knew I shouldn't have used so much Crown Royal," she says between coughs, waving ineffectually in an effort to clear the smoke.

I sigh as I emerge from my mind palace and stare at the blinking cursor on the laptop screen. There didn't seem to be any useful data there, but I write it down anyway.

The thought of Mrs. Hudson burning the cooking does get me thinking about food. I uncurl myself from the sofa and rummage around in the kitchen, pondering whether my duties as a househusband included making meals. I hope for both of our sakes that they do not. 

As if sensing the line of my inquiry, Henry texts me while I'm trying to judge the freshness of the leftover chicken in the fridge and whether the moldy thing beside it used to be edible or is part of an experiment. 'Just finishing up. Don't feel like cooking tonight," he writes. 'Bringing home Indian takeaway. Anything in particular you want?'

'Thought you'd put a little more effort in since you're so intent on wooing me tonight,' I reply. 

'You'd rather eat out?'

I think of the promise he made in his email and smile. Two can play at this game. 'No. I would have to get dressed for that.'

There is a long pause before his next text. 'Are you naked?'

'Dressing gown. Don't want to scandalize the neighbors.' This is a lie. I don't care about modesty, or what the neighbors think. According to my notes, my last discussion with the one Henry claims hates me resulted in an altercation that left me with a black eye. If anybody were nosy enough to peek through the windows right now they would see that the dressing gown isn't secured. 'I was very thorough in the bath,' I add. 'As per your request.'

There is an even longer pause this time and I wonder if he is trying to compose himself. 'I'll get a bottle of wine,' he finally replies. 'I'll make up for the meal after.'

I feel a momentary thrill of victory as I type 'I look forward to it.'

**************

I was what one might call a late bloomer, sexually. Most of my knowledge of sexual activities is theoretical not because I am a virgin, as my brother and the Woman assumed, but because I find the process of seeking out a partner to help me tend to a basic biological function tedious. I had a few disappointing experiences with my "friend" Seb at Uni and an interesting one with the Woman, but I am usually perfectly happy tending to the occasional demands of my transport on my own. 

But that is why married people report having more sex than single people. Ready availability of a willing partner.

Laying sideways on the bed with Henry kneeling on the floor between my legs, both of us naked, I understand the admonishment from my journal to be quieter. The wicked things he's doing to me are pulling sounds from me I didn't even know I was capable of making.

"You've done this before," I observe between panting breaths.

He hums and I gasp at the vibration. "A few times," he confirms in a low voice between teasing licks and slow, filthy kisses. "It's my favorite way to prepare you. You're always so open and slick..." He presses his thumb into my perineum, just above his working mouth. "So desperate for it. I can usually slide right in." He pushes a finger inside me and my lower body seizes, muscles gripping around the intrusion. "Just like that," he murmurs. 

I twist my fingers in the bed sheets and fight the urge to grab him by the hair and rut against his face. Dear God, is he nuzzling me?

"Hold yourself open for me, love."

I follow his instructions automatically, grateful to have something to do with my hands as I squeeze the backs of my thighs and pull upward. 

He thrusts his finger a few times before pushing in a second, immediately finding just the right angle and using the right amount of pressure. 

'He's done this too,' I think, groaning helplessly. 

"Look at me, darling."

I force myself to focus on his face between my legs. He looks just as flushed as I feel. His eyes are dark and intense, almost dangerous. Predatory. Hungry. "I'm not going to do that this time," he says, his hand continuing to thrust leisurely, keeping me on the edge. "This is about you. I'm going to keep doing this until you come. Just relax and let it happen."

He keeps his eyes locked with mine as he bends to lick at the stretched skin surrounding his fingers. 

My legs are already starting to shake. I reinforce my grip and moan as the muscles in my abdomen tremble. I let my head fall back, the added visual too much for me to take. But that only makes me focus more on the feeling of his hands spreading me further open as he replaces his fingers with his tongue. On the obscene noises he makes that suggest he is enjoying this even more than I am. I give in to the pleasure and my thoughts scatter wildly. I hear him talking to me between hot swipes of his tongue, but it's as if he isn't speaking English anymore. I can only make out the occasional word - love, gorgeous, want, come - amid the sounds falling from his lips in his smooth voice. I am vaguely aware that I am making loud, embarrassing grunting noises. 

The tension breaks and I shout as my whole body shudders uncontrollably, my pelvic muscles contracting. And then suddenly Henry is on top of me, straddling me as my legs drop from my numb fingers. I realize when I feel his hot, heavy erection slide alongside my own that he never once touched my cock. He does now, wrapping his hand around both of us and stroking purposefully and I am coming again. Or maybe I never stopped coming. I'm not sure. 

'There's a reason the French call it La Petite Mort,' I think hazily as I grip his shoulders. I might still be yelling, but I can't be certain.

He growls and shudders to a stop, his hand slowing. The fog in my head clears and I am able to catch my breath. He kisses me and I think I should probably object to that after what he's been doing, but he just tastes like musk, curry and, perhaps faintly, soap. 

And then suddenly he's pulling away from me and disappearing into the toilet.

I stare at the ceiling while my pulse settles into a slower rhythm, listening to the water splash in the sink.

I have almost lulled myself into a trance when I hear the faint click of a mobile camera.

"Don't you have enough of those already," I ask without opening my eyes. 

He chuckles softly. "I can hardly be faulted for admiring my gorgeous husband."

I pull my legs back up and plant my feet on the edge of the mattress, spreading my knees. I feel ridiculous and exposed, but it has the desired effect.

He groans and snaps a couple more photos. "You are a wicked man."

'And you are very easily corrupted.' I run my fingers through the cooling pool of semen on my abdomen and bring them to my mouth, very deliberately and slowly licking them clean. 

"Jesus, Will," he breaths.

I open my eyes finally and look up at him, hovering over me so he can get a close-up of my face. I lick my lips and see his eyes darken. Pupils dilated.

I finally understand the pleasure the Woman found in using sex to bend people to her will. The rush of power can be quite intoxicating.

I reach out to him. "Can I see?"

He hands the mobile over easily and goes about cleaning the mess from me with a flannel while I scroll through recent images. It would seem he hardly takes anything but pictures of me. Many of them pornographic, but not all of them. There are some of me bent over the laptop - sitting in bed, on the sofa, at the table or just on the floor amid a mess of papers. There's one of me in a meditative position, probably deep in my mind palace. And there's a few of me waking up in the morning, tousled and smiling languidly, my eyes still closed. I'm sure I can guess why that series of pictures stops before my eyes open and my expression changes.

"Can I copy these?"

**************

He lays beside me reading, his hand occasionally wandering over to absently rub my leg as I curl over the laptop, clipping pictures, observations and his email from earlier into my notes. I take a picture of him surreptitiously while he is especially engrossed and take a moment to really look at him. He is, by all objective standards of modern society, a very attractive man. Combined with his charming, romantic nature and the steady - if not excessive - wealth of a doctor, he could have had any number of willing and eager partners. Why had he chosen to bind himself to someone who doesn't even believe in marriage? Someone who doesn't even remember who he is every morning?

"Because I love you," he says suddenly, shaking me from my thoughts. 

"What?"

He puts his book down and looks up at me. "You were wondering why I put up with you, right? That's usually what you're thinking when you get that look."

"Love is..."

"A chemical defect? Easily confused with lust or infatuation?"

I bite my tongue. Obviously we've had this conversation before.

His hand returns to my leg, fingers drawing light patterns on the inside of my knee. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. You never believe me when I say it's more than physical attraction. I don't care if I have to remind you of who I am every day for the rest of our lives. I cannot live without you."

"That's easy for you to say now that we're young and relatively healthy. From what you described of last night, our relationship is still primarily based on sexual desire. It won't always be like this." I open the final picture he took and tilt the screen toward him pointedly. 

He barely glances at the picture of me licking semen from my fingers, my legs spread to display the loosened opening still damp with his saliva, before returning his gaze to my face. "You think I will leave you once you can no longer satisfy me sexually? Is that why you were so desperate for it last night that you all but ravaged me?"

"I..." There was nothing in my notes about what happened last night. All I have is his rather colorful description in the email. "I did?"

"Mmm...you practically tore my clothes off and begged me to fuck you so hard you would feel it for days. You said you wanted to remember."

I did?

He sighs and sits up, wrapping his arms around me, pressing tightly to my side. "I love you." He punctuates his words with a kiss to my shoulder. "I will always love you." He starts kissing a trail up my neck. "Until we are both...old and gray...and the closest we come to physical intimacy...is when I have to remove a bee stinger from your arse." I turn my head to meet him and he kisses my lips. This time he tastes like mint toothpaste. And still faintly of curry. "I will never stop loving you."

'Liar,' I think, but I hold my tongue. It is fairly obvious he will grow tired of this if my memory never improves enough for me to recognize him every morning. But he may not realize that yet and, given my condition, I don't have the luxury of worrying about the future. All I have is the present. And there are worse ways I could be spending it than with a handsome doctor who is utterly devoted to me.

"Thank you," I say, because I still can't bring myself to say the other words.

He smiles happily anyway and nuzzles my nose. "Are you almost finished?" He nods to the laptop.

"Oh..." I pry myself from him so I can finish my journal for today. I save it and set the laptop on the night table before shutting out the lamp and slipping under the covers.

I gasp a little as he pulls me tightly against his naked body - obviously this is his preferred way to sleep too. I realize that it would be very easy for either of us to take advantage of this arrangement during the night if not for the fact that I might not recognize him. 

I think of the second evening dose of the medication I took, which my notes identify as a new type of nootropic derivative. "You said the medication is working?"

He sighs and rubs my back. "It's difficult to tell with an experimental drug. But I have faith in it. Your journal helps as well."

I look at him in the dim moonlight of the bedroom. It's not that I don't recognize him, I think. I know I've seen him before. But it's like he's someone I met once and can't quite recall when or where or what his name is.

"I know," he whispers, understanding my line of thinking again. "I wish you could remember."

"Maybe I will."

An odd, sad expression flits across his face. "Maybe."

**************  
Day 2

I wake to the sound of an alarm clock. Odd, because I hardly ever set an alarm. I open my eyes to a room I don't recognize and nearly leap from the bed in surprise when I feel it shift beneath the weight of another person. A man groans softly. The alarm stops. 

Did I go home with someone last night? I feel a bit sore, but I don't remember anything.

I roll over tentatively and blink the sleep from my eyes. A man is sitting naked on the edge of the bed, looking at his mobile. Clearly we had sex, but why don't I remember? What did I take to cause such a complete blackout? He couldn't have knowingly been taking advantage of my inebriated state last night if he was still here, could he? 

He looks back and catches me staring. "Sorry. I have to be at work early."

"Who are you?"

He sighs and reaches to touch my cheek. I flinch and he stops, his fingers hovering. I notice the glint of a gold band on his ring finger in the early morning light as he says "I'm your husband, darling."


	5. Additional artwork

I am moving all the additional artwork for this story here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14371785/


	6. Day 2, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided that, for the sake of my sanity, I cannot acknowledge that much of season 4 happened. So with this story, let's assume it diverged from cannon sometime at the very beginning of "Six Thatchers", probably in the gap between Sherlock's return from "exile" and the baby being born (or maybe just after she's born).

Henry insists on making me toast even though I'm not hungry. He also talks me into taking a pill he claims is a nootropic drug that he's hopeful will improve my memory. I doubt that's possible if my amnesia is as severe as it seems, but I take the pill anyway.

"I have a bee colony," I ask, looking up from my handwritten note as he sets a plate in front of me.

He nods at the jar on the table. "That's where you got the honey from."

I pick up the unmarked jar. Like Henry, it looks simultaneously familiar and wrong. I open it and scoop a little onto my finger to taste. It is real, fresh honey from a hive. But that would mean the hive is at least a year old. "How long have we lived here?"

"About two months. We moved in directly after our honeymoon on the continent." He pours two mugs of tea and settles at the table beside me with his own identical plate. "Why?"

I shrug. There's no use questioning him about it. He probably knows nothing about beekeeping. It's likely the hive came with the house. I can look into it later. I turn to the next page in the folder and my breath catches. It's a printout of an obituary. 

Henry reaches for my hand, gripping tightly. Obviously he's done something like this before. Many times, no doubt.

"How," I ask, forcing my voice to stay level.

"He was in the car when you had your accident. He didn't make it to hospital."

He was driving. I remember that. Something hit us and then...nothing. I strain to recall more details about that night, but it's just blackness.

"I'm sorry," Henry says, pulling my focus back to our kitchen and his pained gaze. 

"Was I at the funeral?"

Henry winces. "No. You were still very sick. I took you to visit his grave later."

I nod and slide my hand from his grasp, reaching for the folder again. I know I should be more affected by John's death, but it just doesn't seem real. None of this does.

I glance at the copy of the marriage certificate for Henry and William Peters - dated three months ago - and turn past it to find two articles written by Henry from a medical journal. I skim through the discussions on forms of amnesia and traditional treatments and read about the subject of his case study: me. He describes the trauma I suffered in the accident and how I came to him confused and paranoid - incapable of holding on to memories for more than an hour. He talks about various exercises, therapies and medications he tried, the ethics of working with a patient who cannot remember consenting to experimental treatments (necessitating recorded statements and the presence of a social worker) and all the progress and setbacks. The knowledge that I have made improvements since the onset of my condition is encouraging. 

The last page is a note from Henry that ends with a ridiculously florid declaration of love.

"A bit dramatic, isn't it?"

He smiles and it strikes me how devastatingly charming he could be. "I know you think me a foolish schoolboy who will eventually get over this 'ridiculous infatuation' - as you once described it - but I do love you. More than I knew it was even possible to love anyone." He sets his fork on his mostly empty plate and reaches for my hand again. "You asked me yesterday why I married you, knowing your memory might never fully recover. I told you I couldn't bear the thought of not being with you. I don't care that I have to remind you of who I am every day. I love you. Truly and madly. I cannot imagine living without you by my side and I don't care to try."

Ridiculous and sentimental though it may be, he obviously genuinely believes the words he's saying. "Even if I am incapable of loving you even half as much as that?"

I half expect him to get angry, though I don't know why. He has shown nothing but remarkable tenderness and patience with me so far. 

He smiles and kisses me. "I have to get to surgery," he says as he gathers his dishes and stands, finishing the last of his tea hurriedly and setting everything in the sink. "Your mobile is here, along with your laptop." He points to the counter where they are charging. "My number is in the contacts if you need to ring me." He fishes keys from the bowl. "I should be home around six."

"Mmm." I reach for the honey again, realizing I am, in fact, a bit hungry, and spoon some onto my toast.

He smiles as I take a bite and comes back to kiss the top of my head. The gesture is obviously habitual, but something about the careful precision of it makes me reach up to feel a spot near it, my fingers encountering scar tissue beneath the hair. 

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

I look up into his worried eyes. "No, I just...didn't notice that before."

He smiles and pulls my hand away gently, kissing my knuckles. Then he continues on his path out the door, calling "I love you" back to me one last time.

"Mmm-hmm," I mumble around a mouthful of toast.

*****************

221b looks just as it did when I last saw it. Only now, Moriarty is crouched beside the fireplace, poking at the still-smoking ashes that were clearly only recently a burning log.

"Thought I'd finally got rid of you," I grumble.

He chuckles. "Oh, Sherlock..." My stomach clenches uncomfortably. He stands and reaches for an ornate crown perched on the mantle. "Or is it William?" I catch his exaggerated frown in the mirror before he turns toward me. "Scott? What are you calling yourself these days?"

I clench my jaw.

"No matter," he continues, shrugging and placing the crown on his head, turning back to the mirror to adjust it. "You always say you want to be rid of me, but we both know that people like you *need* people like me."

"There are plenty of people like you in the world. You are not special."

He tsks and helps himself to my chair. "Come now, we both know that's not true or you wouldn't have given it all up to live in the country with Pretty Boy."

I struggle to hold back a sneer, though I'm not sure if it's his words or just his general presence that bother me.

"What is he again? Another GP?"

"Shut up."

"Tell me...when he's sucking your cock, do you sometimes look down and imagine it's really John's head bobbing between your legs?"

I am across the room before I am aware I'm moving, my fist connecting with his face so forcefully that the crown topples from his head, clattering noisily to the floorboards.

He lunges upright, tackling me to the floor, hands wrapping tightly around my wrists and pinning my arms above my head. I curse myself for not anticipating his attack, allowing him to get the upper hand.

"Oh, I missed this," he chortles as I struggle.

I grapple with him, half blind by rage, until I manage to reverse our positions. I look down into the face of the man I have trapped beneath me and freeze. The man isn't Moriarty anymore, even if he does have a similar mischievous grin on his face.

"If you wanted to be on top, you could have just asked, darling," Henry laughs.

I open my eyes and take a moment to reorientate myself. I am sitting on the floor of the sitting room, the laptop open in front of me. 

"Well, that was interesting," I mutter to myself as I begin typing in my journal.

I had been hoping to find John in 221b so I could try to make sense of the baffling encounter I had previously recorded in my notes. It seems even in death, Moriarty is determined to thwart my plans.

I keep reading my notes, eagerly absorbing everything I've forgotten of the past months. It seems much of yesterday was spent fretting over how I wound up married to Henry and living - seemingly happily - in the suburbs of Liverpool. This seems to have stemmed mostly from an odd conversation with Molly in my mind palace wherein she insisted that this just wasn't like me. 'She's right,' I conclude. 'It isn't like Sherlock Holmes to move clear across England and change my entire identity to escape a past too painful to think about. But what I told her is also true: I am not Sherlock Holmes anymore. I am William Peters. I may not always recognize my husband, but I have plenty of data to suggest that he takes care of me with the patience of someone deeply and irrationally in love. Maybe one day I will be able to reciprocate.'

I am interrupted by my mobile ringing. I answer it without thinking to check the ID.

"Hullo, Will. It's Lillian," a woman's voice announces, awkwardly adding "your neighbor" when I don't respond.

"Oh...yes. Lillian Taylor, right?" This was the neighbor Henry claimed actually liked me. The one who *hadn't* punched me in the face over some mysterious disagreement. 

"I'm sorry. I always forget about your condition."

"Mmm."

"You asked me to design a label for your honey. I finished the mock up. I can pop over for a bit to show you if you're not busy."

The prospect of engaging in idle chat with a suburban housewife is less than appealing, but the fact that I have spoken to her before - even asked her for favors - is intriguing. She could prove a valuable source of information.

"I'll put the kettle on."


	7. Day 2, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, sorry. Next one will be longer. :)

Lillian is an attractive, though average looking, woman with dark hair and Celtic features. Her husband, according to my notes, is a moderately powerful businessman, which is why she can afford to work freelance. She does crime scene sketches for the police and consults on archeological research at the University of Liverpool, which makes her potentially less boring than I initially thought. Recently, it seems, I helped her determine a cause of death on a 16th century skull she was reconstructing.

Even though she knows I don't really remember her, she greets me with a warm embrace and settles easily into the sitting room sofa as if she has done this before. She asks how I am with more than the usual perfunctory manner, as if she is genuinely concerned. At first, I assume this is due to my condition - as she put it - but the alarm in her eyes when I hand her the cup of tea and she spots the faint bruises on my wrists suggests otherwise. I set this observation aside for the moment to address her purpose for visiting.

"You'll understand, of course, if I don't remember hiring you."

"Oh, this wasn't really a job. More of a favor for a neighbor. You told me you doubted your hive will ever produce enough to actually sell at the market, but in case it ever does you wanted to have a brand and a label." She draws a sketch and a sheet of sticky labels from her carrier bag and lays them on the coffee table. "You were very specific in your description of how it should look, but I may have taken minor liberties with some of the details. Softened her features, mostly. Don't want to frighten the children."

I pick up the sketch, which features a friendly-looking, though not overly cartoonish, queen bee with an ornate crown perched on her head. A dotted line suggests her flight path around and through the stylized letters of the brand name I apparently chose. 

Above Board.

I think of the words I read in my journal this morning. My discussion with John. 'Ever since the Queen went above board.' This cannot be a coincidence, but I'm not sure what the significance of it is yet. It's as if I'm leaving clues for myself, but I'm not sure what puzzle they are meant to solve.

This reminds me of a question that nagged me earlier. "Did the hive come with the house?" 

"Yes. It was one of the features you liked best about it. Your...husband thought it would give you something to do."

I set the sketch down. "You don't like Henry. Is it because he reminds you of a former lover?"

She blinks at me, her mouth working impotently, startled.

"Or a family member, perhaps? You are obviously concerned for my safety. You think he's violent."

I can tell her first instinct is to deny my observation. But she is smart enough to see the folly in that. She sets her cup down on the table. "Not violent, exactly. He's...volatile. Unpredictable."

"Have you seen any evidence he has tried to hurt me?"

She eyes my wrists before hesitantly saying. "I can't prove anything, but...two months ago someone gave you a black eye. You didn't remember how you got it."

"According to my notes, I got it in an argument with the neighbor." I point in the direction of the house opposite the one Lillian resides in. 

She makes a disbelieving noise. "Bob? I admit I don't know him very well. He's always working. But I doubt he would hurt a fly."

"Forgive me. I'm not accusing you of anything. I believe you. I'm just trying to understand."

Her eyes soften with that look of sympathy. "That's what concerns me. I hope I'm wrong, but I'm afraid you wouldn't know if I'm not."

I sit back in my chair and press my steepled fingers to my lips, contemplating her. 

She sighs. "I know we haven't known each other for long and you feel like you barely know me at all, but I want you to know that I care about you and I am here for you. If you need anything, you have my number."

A relative or a friend. Something happened to them and she regrets not having seen the signs earlier. She's afraid of making the same mistake again. But she's wrong. At least partly. Henry may be volatile, but he isn't a danger to *me*. 

'You're MINE.'

Obviously he is possessive. But that is the sort of impassioned declaration that would come from an overdramatic lover. Even if it does suggest something darker, it suggests the sort of person who would destroy anyone who threatened me or his claim over me. 

The sort of person who would never tolerate a neighbor punching me in the face.

"Did you see Bob after the alleged fight? Did he have bruises?"

Lillian shakes her head. "As I said, I don't see him much, but I don't think so." She finishes her tea and sets the cup on the tea tray. "I have a new job I've got to get to." She stands, straightens her clothes and bends to kiss my cheek. "Take care of yourself, Will," she murmurs. 

I make a vague noise of acknowledgement as she shows herself out.

***************

I wash Lillian's cup and leave it to dry in the sink. Then I locate the coat that must be mine and go out to the garden to get a better look at the hive.

It is a standard wood box hive with a reflective cover. I walk around it, listening to the hum of a healthy colony while I consider all the clues that I have left that seem to be leading me here.

When the Queen goes above board.

Crown Royale.

Crown.

I locate my beekeeping equipment in the small shed near the hive. If I'm right, there's very little chance of being stung as I wouldn't need to open the hive fully, but it wouldn't hurt to at least wear gloves.

I hesitate when I spot the smoker and remember another detail from my notes. Molly with a cigarette. John with a pipe. Smoke curling from Mrs. Hudson's stove and the fire Moriarty was tending. I peer inside the smoker and find a single, crumpled piece of paper. I unravel it carefully. It has a drawing similar to the one in Lillian's sketch, only this one is rougher with a more realistic looking bee. Beneath it, in my handwriting, are John's words from my journal in the form of a quotation. 

"When the queen goes Above Board." - John H. Watson

I return the paper to the smoker, grab my gloves and approach the hive, moving slowly and carefully so I don't disturb the bees that have ventured outside the box. I lift the top cover gently, only moving as much as I absolutely have to, and find the memory stick sitting innocuously on top of the inner cover - the crown board.

"Thank you, John," I murmur, even though I know he didn't really have anything to do with it. In all likelihood, my encounter with him in my mind palace never really happened. I invented it because I knew if I thought the words were coming from John I would understand their significance. I would listen to him and trust him. As I always had.


	8. Day 2, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a new potential cover art for this story. It still doesn't quite look right because I'm a crappy artist. If anyone else wants to take a crack at it, PLEASE DO. I would also welcome ideas for how to fix this from non-artists.
> 
> http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/diandrahollman/9414177/5121/5121_original.jpg

The memory stick is password protected, naturally. I stare at the blinking cursor in the password prompt as I try to determine what sort of password I could possibly have set. Obviously it had to be something I would be sure to remember, despite my condition. And if all this secrecy is meant to hide the information on the drive from Henry - as must surely be the case - then it must be something he couldn't possibly know or find out using his privilege as my husband. 

I try "Redbeard", but it doesn't work. Not surprising, really. If Magnusson knew about it, Henry could probably find it.

I similarly rule out 1058, clever as it may be for the house security code. Wasn't that the number The Woman fooled me into trying on her camera phone?

Her measurements aren't the password either.

I groan and grind my palms into my forehead in frustration. "Think," I mutter under my breath. "What would nobody know?" Or perhaps something only a very small number of people would know. John would know, probably.

John.

The note had said "John H. Watson." 

I type "Hamish" and tap return. The prompt disappears, replaced by a window displaying the contents of the drive. 

As always, John had the answer, even if he wasn't aware he did.

The drive contains what appears to be a copy of my journal. But it has to be more than it appears or I wouldn't have gone to such trouble to hide it. 

The first few entries are identical to the ones I already read this morning. Except they begin with our honeymoon. After the familiar pornographic images there is an entry I haven't seen before.

'I know Henry is lying to me, but I don't know the extent of his deception. Which is why I have duplicated my journal entries from this date forward here. I suspect he is editing the original file. The contents of this drive should prove it.'

I open my original journal so that I can view both versions on the screen simultaneously.

The first few entries are unchanged and simply document our move into the new house and my first inspections of the hive. This seems to have been when I got the idea to buy a data stick from a local shop and hide it in the one place I could be certain was mine alone. Each subsequent unique entry in this alternate journal is accompanied by observations about the hive itself in the original, my recovery of the memory stick disguised as simple curiosity about the colony. This might explain why I seem to be opening the hive more often than strictly necessary, though my amnesia provides a convenient excuse.

Some of the changes are so minor that I can't imagine why the alterations were deemed necessary. Things like mundane conversations with Bob and flashes of memory from the honeymoon of Henry buying a package from a man on the street in France and speaking to one of the staff at a hotel in Italy. These locations seem to have been determined by what language he was speaking, noting his apparent fluency.

Then I find the pictures of myself sporting a bruise over my left eye. The notes for that day in each version of the journal are drastically different. In the "official" version I went about my usual data collection after a vague note about arguing with the neighbor. Henry treated my injury and fussed over me protectively. 'I know he's lying,' I write in the alternate journal. 'I suspect he was actually the one who hit me, but I can't prove it. I don't even know why he would have done it. I have no memory of anything that happened after I put the memory stick back in the hive. All I know for certain is that I didn't fight with Bob yesterday as Henry claims I did and Henry is being particularly affectionate and gentle with me today, as if he feels guilty or even remorseful.'

As I continue to read this new version of the events of the past month, I am reminded of the way Henry described me in his study. Confused. Paranoid. If these notes had been written by anyone else, I would draw the same conclusion about their author. But even though I have reason to doubt my memories of anything prior to or during the honeymoon, my account of the events of the past two months doesn't sound confused or paranoid. Merely incomplete. Entire days seem to have been omitted with no explanation given. Yesterday, for example, which is only covered by the journal Henry has access to. 

Twice I announced my intention to escape, only to wake up the next morning with no memory of how I got back to the house. One of these correlates with the day I woke with bruises on my wrists that I deduced had happened when he tied me to the bed with his belt and impaled himself on my cock.

I come to the day Henry came home on his lunch break. In the possibly edited version, my daily activities were interrupted by a bout of spontaneous amorousness from my husband. The unaltered version notes this too, but in far more graphic detail. 

'Henry came home at lunch and dragged me to the bedroom, nearly tearing my clothes in his impatience to undress me. He prepared me roughly while performing fellatio in a manner I can only describe as aggressive. His goal seemed to be to make me reach orgasm as quickly as possible. I asked him to slow down once, which prompted him to growl and jab at my prostate. I barely finished ejaculating down his throat before he flipped me over and thrust himself inside me. I felt my hips bruise under his fingers. He demanded I say his name and then my own name. I said "Will" almost instinctively to this last prompt, which made him growl and reach between my legs. He brought me to a second orgasm while saying my own name, then pulled out and ejaculated across my back.'

The unaltered journal notes this as a potential strange kink. The original version - obviously written after I returned the stick to the hive - describes Henry acting as the gentle, doting husband again that night (as opposed to the fierce, hungry lover I had seen mid-day), cooking dinner for me and giving me a full-body massage that erased any traces of the headache I'd had earlier in the day. 

Why had these details been removed from the official notes? There isn't anything particularly disconcerting about the unaltered version other than, possibly, the name issue. It merely describes a different part of Henry's personality - his impatience and possible lack of control. What does this imply about our activities last night, for which I only have the one account accompanied by a suggestive email, data about anal orgasms and some pornographic pictures. 

One month ago, I woke up with memory of the day before, news which Henry greeted with a mixture of happiness and wariness. In both accounts, I conclude that this is because it had happened before and he knew what would come next. The next few hours of notes before I returned the stick to its hiding spot give two differing accounts of my growing illness and its possible cause. I seem to have deliberately written them that way, knowing the "official" one would be - if not altered - at least read by Henry. In that one, I describe my symptoms as a combination of a side-effect of my medication and possible food sickness as I go about my work, which included Lillian's skull. 'I suspect Henry is drugging me, though I don't know why or what sort of drug he is using,' I write in my secret journal. 'I was so caught up in Lillian's case last night that I can't remember whether I took the evening dose of "medicine". I deliberately concealed this morning's dose and hid it in the box containing my microscope slides. I can't test it myself, but Lillian might have access to a lab that can. I will try to hide one of the evening tablets as well. I would do so now, but I've no idea where he hides them. I have searched all likely spots and several unlikely ones. I will have to try to trick him into revealing their location tonight.'

The next day is entirely missing from the alternate journal and the original only contains data regarding Lillian's case. I find the box of microscope slides in the small study where I've collected some basic lab equipment. There is only one tablet inside, so obviously my plans hadn't gone as I'd hoped. But I've no idea what happened. 

In the next entry of the secret journal, I note the need for more reliable clues leading me to the data stick as I can't rely on simple curiosity to compel me to possibly disturb the hive. I invent the conversation with John and, when that still doesn't prove entirely reliable, I purchase a small jar of honey from a local market, transfer it to a cleaned out jam jar and toss the original in a bin down the street while on a "walk". I ask Lillian to help me design a label, a rejected prototype of which I hide in the smoker, and tell Henry that I gleaned the honey from my hive. He believes me, proving that he thankfully doesn't know anything about bees.

The last few weeks of entries in the secret journal are focused primarily on Henry, the nature of our relationship, and questions about my mental condition.

'Obviously, I am not being held prisoner. At least not in any physical sense. My failed attempts to leave Henry are disconcerting, but I seem to have returned of my own free will. Though it is still possible he is coercing me in some way of which I am unaware.'

'I read the book Lillian loaned me today,' another entry reads. 'Apparently it is popular with the masses right now. It was a predictable, insipid melodrama masquerading as mystery fiction, yet I found myself sympathizing with the one of the characters (ironically named Watson). When she realizes she can no longer trust whether her own memories are real, she says "I have lost control over everything, even the places in my head." I fear I may be going mad.'

In the final entry - the one from Tuesday - I note my failure to obtain the second evening pill a month ago and outline a plan to distract Henry and hide that evening's tablet in the bathroom while I'm "washing up". Specifically, I identify the linen cupboard as my ideal hiding spot.

I pause to search for this second tablet, though I don't expect to find it. If my plan had succeeded, surely I would have another journal entry from Wednesday. At the very least, the notes I have wouldn't indicate that I suffered a relapse of my amnesia. 

Improbably, I find a small white tablet, nearly identical to the one in the microscope slide box, tucked beneath a stack of linens. I stare at it, struggling to make sense of the conflicting data. I have no way of knowing whether I took the evening pill or not one month ago before I woke up with my memories mostly intact. But now it seems I deliberately tried to recreate the conditions of the experiment two days ago to completely unexpected results. I didn't take the pill and I lost my memory anyway.

I return to the laptop in defeat, setting the offending tablet beside me on the table where I can glare at it as I note this failed experiment in my notes. 'There are several possible explanations, but I can't be certain of any of them without more data,' I write.

Of course, the simplest explanation could be that my condition is real and the drug really is working. But the data I have doesn't prove that yet. In any case, repeating the experiment would clear up any uncertainties.

I begin new entries for today in both journals. In the one Henry can access, I note my encounter with Moriarty in my mind palace (including the moment where he became Henry), a careful account of my meeting with Lillian (omitting her concerns for my safety) and observations about the hive. 

In the alternate journal, I copy the interlude with Moriarty, give the full account of my meeting with Lillian along with my newfound doubts about the alteration with Bob, and then set about collecting data on Henry. If something is truly off about my current situation, then he is at the heart of it.

Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be much to dig up on him. He is an only child and both of his parents are long since deceased. He has a medical degree from the University of London and volunteered for several years with Médecins Sans Frontières in Algeria, Mali, Libya and Egypt. I note this in my journal as possible corroboration of his fluency in French.

I hesitate as I realize this is one of the memories he deleted - assuming, of course, that he is the one who has tampered with my notes. Why would he try to conceal this detail from me? It can't be because he doesn't want me to know he speaks French. That's hardly an uncommon skill for an Englishman. If, indeed, he was the one who deleted that memory, he must have done it for another reason.

I re-read the entry with the memories from our honeymoon, but I seem to have been too far away to hear more than a few scattered French words and phrases. Things like "husband" and "honeymoon" and "twelve days". Nothing useful. I was closer when the situation repeated itself in Italy, but my Italian is much more rudimentary than my French. I understood just enough to know that he was arguing with the stranger about money.

My mobile rings as I'm still pondering this information. I glance at the screen to see Henry's name and, with only a half-formed plan to prove my theory, answer with "oui, mon mari."

My words hang in the silence for a moment before he answers. "Tant que j'adore quand tu me parle en français, je suis vachement fatigue maintenant. Peut-on parle anglais?"

The near-native fluidity of his words is colored by a distinct weariness. "What's wrong?"

"It's fine. Look...I probably won't be home for dinner, love. There are some leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry or you can order in. Your medicine is in the cupboard above the stove."

It takes me a moment to register the gift I have just been given. Hiding the tablet will be easier than I thought. But there is still something about his tone that bothers me. I rephrase my question. "What's happened?"

He sighs. "Accident out on the A59. I'll tell you more when I get home. I just...I needed to hear your voice."

I cast about for something to say and come up empty.

"How are you feeling? You had a headache yesterday."

"Oh. Er...I'm fine."

"Good. There's paracetamol in the bath and herbal tea in the cupboard by the kitchen sink if it comes back. That always seems to take the edge off." He takes a deep, slightly trembling breath. "I have to get back to my patient. Don't wait up."

"Okay."

"I love you."

I open my mouth to respond and hesitate, not sure what I'm supposed to respond *with*. It doesn't matter. He's already disconnected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Redbeard is an actual dog as far as I'm concerned and Mofftis can pry that from my cold dead hands. 
> 
> The book Will/Sherlock is quoting is, of course, "Girl on the Train". 
> 
> The French dialogue translates as "yes, my husband" and "much as I love it when you speak to me in French, I am REALLY tired right now. Can we speak English?" At least I hope that's what it says because my French is far from fluent.


	9. Day 2, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't really related, but a friend texted it to me as inspiration:  
> http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4a3ohVSHE1qe8a0fo1_r1_500.gif  
> I love whoever made that.

Henry's disclosure of his hiding spot for the tablets turns out to not be the fortunate break I had hoped it would be. Instead of a bottle with some sort of markings, I find a plastic container used for sorting medications taken on a daily schedule. There are tiny partitions for "AM" and "PM" doses on each day of the week. Each slot from Thursday PM on through the week-end contains a single tablet. 

There is a certain logic to this, I console myself. An amnesiac can't well be trusted to follow a prescribed regimen any more than a patient with Alzheimer's. The risk of over-dose would be too great. If my memory retention has only recently grown to a full twenty-four hour period then I probably still cannot be fully trusted to remember how many pills I've taken on any given day. Except I wouldn't remember to take the pills at all if Henry didn't remind me. I wonder if he has them sorted like this for this exact scenario - so I can take them myself and he can still be assured I will follow the schedule. 

Regardless, while it will be easy for me to hide tonight's tablet without Henry's knowledge, I cannot remove any more tablets from the container without him noticing the absence. 

I am determined to see this experiment through however, so I hide the Thursday PM dose and the tablet I found in the linen cupboard in my microscope slide box and note everything in my private journal. 

There are several possible solutions to the puzzle my life has become, all stemming from two main hypotheses. The first: my rare condition is real and the drug really is an experimental nootropic designed to treat it. As tempting as it is to dismiss this idea, it makes the most sense based on the data I have collected so far. The second hypothesis: my condition is actually *caused* by the drug, whatever it is. But to what end? What could Henry possibly hope to gain from making me believe I have amnesia?

I can find little more information on Henry. After his humanitarian tours in Africa he settled back in England. He was working A&E at a hospital in London when I had my accident. The rest of his story is in my notes. Aside from one drunk and disorderly charge and one dismissed charge of impropriety from a patient that was clearly more rooted in homophobia than reality, he is entirely, unimaginatively clean.

I check the police records and find an accident matching Henry's description from earlier today. It seems a tire came off a lorry, causing it to swerve dangerously. At least three other cars were involved. One victim died at the scene. Five others were taken to hospital in varying conditions. I wonder, idly, which one Henry is treating. From the tension in his voice, I would guess his patient is one of the more critical ones.

It is getting late and I am not certain how much longer I will have the luxury of privacy. I wrap up my notes in the secret journal and return the memory stick to the hive. Then I return to the file on the desktop and carefully construct a narrative that frames my research into Henry as simple curiosity. 

I affix the label Lillian designed to the jar of honey and hope that it will be enough to guide me to the memory stick tomorrow should my experiment fail and my memories of today vanish.

I need to think. I'm pretty sure I saw a violin in my study-cum-laboratory.

************

The violin, like so many things in my present life, is familiar despite clearly not being the one I had back at Baker Street. It is a fine, perfectly tuned instrument that I've no doubt I have made good use of in recent months. 

I run through all the standards I have committed to memory. Beethoven, Mozart, Boccherini, Chopin, God Save the Queen. Anything that is so ingrained in muscle memory that I no longer need to concentrate on the fingering. This allows me to focus on more pressing matters. 

The human mind is terribly unreliable when it comes to memory. Even my own superior intellect cannot necessarily overcome the natural tendency to conflate events, dreams and suppositions. Whether my condition is a real medical one or is artificially constructed by drugs, the effect is the same. I cannot trust my memories and I cannot draw anything concrete from either of my journals. Lillian's observations contain some noteworthy points, but are too clouded by her emotional biases to be of much use. 

I need to filter out all the distractions and focus on the facts.

I was in an accident eight months ago. John was driving. I sustained a head injury. He didn't survive. 

I am currently married to Dr. Henry Peters and living in Cressington Park. He makes sure I take a pill twice a day for purposes of which I am yet uncertain.

I don't trust Henry, but I don't fear him either. I am fairly certain I could overpower him physically if need be. The fact that I haven't, even after he hit me if the suspicions Lillian and I share are correct, suggests I've had no cause to.

I've threatened to leave him, yet I am still here. Like a child making hollow threats to run away from home. And why should I leave? There is nothing abhorrent about my life here aside from my inability to remember it.

Regardless of the outcome of my experiment, no matter what the pills are for, I don't doubt Henry's love for me. His devotion is irrational, certainly, but unwavering. 

I am several measures into Bach's "Air" when I realize I am no longer alone. I turn to find Henry standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a glass of some amber colored liquor cradled in one hand. 

"Don't stop," he protests softly. "It was beautiful."

His clothing is rumpled. His eyes are red-rimmed. 

His patient died.

"How old was he?"

Henry huffs out a breath. "Late thirties. His wife is in intensive care."

About my age. Died of injuries sustained in a car accident, leaving behind at least one loved one.

I put down the violin and bow and cross the room to him, taking the glass from his hand and setting it on a nearby table. 

I can feel his body trembling faintly as I kiss him. He makes a noise almost like a whimper, his hand cupping the back of my neck, but he doesn't try to take control. 

He tastes like Scotch.

I slide my hands beneath the untucked hem of his shirt, smoothing over warm skin that shudders as he gasps against my lips. 

He presses his forehead to mine, wraps his arms loosely around my shoulders. His breathing is uneven, as if he is barely holding back an emotional outburst. 

"I don't know what I'd do if I lost you," he whispers.

I rest my hands on his hips, steadying him. He leans into me. I have no doubt if we stay here any longer he will simply sag to the floor. 

"Should get you to bed," I venture. 

He sighs, his alcohol-scented breath warming my cheek, but doesn't move. 

I unwrap his arms and gently coax him up to our bedroom. He follows, docile, and allows me to remove his shoes and trousers without protest. When I slide my fingers under the waistband of his pants, however, he stops me.

"Let me just...wash up a bit."

The look he gives me is uncertain and soft and I realize that - perhaps for the first time in the months since my accident - *I* am the one taking care of *him*.

I cup his cheek, running my thumb delicately over his lips. They part instinctively and his eyes flutter closed. Lillian may be right in thinking him unpredictable, but he is far from dangerous. At least at the moment. 

I debate confronting him about everything. Forcing him to tell me the truth. But I don't know yet what the "truth" might be. Until I know what those pills are and what they do, it is probably better to wait. Play the part and see where this all leads. Keep gathering evidence so when I do confront him I will have the complete picture. 

"I'll just finish up my notes," I say.

He opens his eyes, looking slightly dazed. Then he nods, kisses my palm and pulls away from me, disappearing into the bath.

********************

I note as many details in my journal as I deem safe about Henry's return tonight and my deductions about his state of mind. I wish I could add more to the copy in the hive, but retrieving it now would be too risky.

'It is obvious that his efforts to save his patient today reminded him of treating me months ago in some oblique way, prompting him to contemplate the possibility of my death,' I write. 'This line of thought greatly distressed him and now he seeks comfort and reassurance from me that I am not sure I am adequately equipped to provide.' Because, more importantly, what he seeks is reciprocity of his love for me. 

I save the journal and close the laptop, leaving it on the kitchen table as I return to the bedroom. 

I spare a glance at Henry, laying on the bed with one arm draped over his eyes, before turning toward the bath to wash up myself. I brush my teeth even though I haven't eaten anything since breakfast (I needed to think).

The lamp on my side of the bed is the only light in the room. I hover beside the bed for a few moments, filing away details I can't be certain I will ever be able to access again. Henry is well muscled enough that I wonder when he finds time to work out. There's a light dusting of hair on his chest and below his navel, disappearing beneath the bedsheet draped across his hips. There are faint scratches and bruises along his body that mirror the ones on mine, the remaining evidence of what was apparently a very enthusiastic round of sex two nights ago. But other than an older scar on his abdomen, his skin is far more unblemished than mine. 

I wonder how many times I have done this. Traced the contours of his body with my eyes, hands, lips. How many times have I learned exactly how to touch him to make him gasp or moan or even beg - only to forget it all?

He senses my stare and lifts his arm from his face, blinking up at me. He smiles, soft and genuine, and reaches for me in invitation.

I turn out the light, let my dressing gown fall to the floor, and crawl beneath the covers. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me gently, lazily. I let my fingers explore blindly, feeling his breath catch when my thumb grazes a nipple. He makes breathy, helpless noises as my lips explore his neck.

Sensitive. Responsive.

I have just slipped my hand beneath the sheet when he stops me with a firm grip on my wrist. 

"Sorry. I don't think I can tonight, love."

Of course. He's probably too knackered for that. I rest my hand flat on his abdomen and settle into his side, my head resting on his shoulder. He tilts my head back with gentle fingers beneath my chin so he can recapture my lips. Then he sighs, presses his lips to my forehead, and settles with one hand covering mine and the other tangled in my hair. 

I wait until his breathing deepens with sleep before carefully pulling away. 

I lay on my back, watching the shadows move across the ceiling. I consider going out to the hive to retrieve the memory stick in case I'm proven wrong and relapse overnight. But that would only wake him and risk rousing suspicion. I can't disrupt the fragile trust he has in me. Not yet. Instead, I go into my mind palace and place my wedding ring on the music stand in 221b. 

Then, with Henry's soft snores filling my ears, I relax and allow myself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the teasing.


	10. Day 3, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A change you may have noticed since the last chapter: Megabat provided me with some art that was both lovely and highlighted a glaring mistake I make with the timeline. I went back and made a bunch of edits. Basically, the accident happened in July and this story takes place in February now. Sorry. I'll try not to do it again.
> 
> This chapter features a dream/memory, a blowjob and John. Not all at the same time though. Sorry. That was misleading.

There is a faint hissing noise coming from somewhere nearby. I struggle to open my eyes. I am in a car - one that has obviously recently crashed. The bonnet is crumpled, half obscuring what little I can see through the spider web of cracks in the windscreen. Everything is blurry. 

I try to recall how I got here. I was working a case, wasn't I? Weren't John and I close to catching the suspect?

John.

Something prevents me from turning my head fully to look at the driver's seat, but I can see enough to know that he is slumped over the steering wheel. I call his name, but there must be something wrong with my ears as I can barely hear my own voice.

Everything shifts for a disorientating moment and I realize my eyes are closed and there is a soft pillow beneath my cheek. 

A dream. No. A memory.

I pry my eyes open just long enough to verify that I am in a bed, then lie quietly waiting for my nerves to settle. It is morning. The light is just beginning to creep into the room. But it must be early as Henry is still sleeping beside me.

Henry.

My eyes pop open. I remember.

I take a minute to think and consider my options. I still can't be certain that the drug is causing my memory loss instead of treating it. The results of changing the variables have been inconclusive thus far. But for now, that is irrelevant. What matters is the effect Henry believes the drug has and what I choose to tell him. If he thinks it really is a cure to a legitimate medical condition, it probably doesn't matter either way. But if he is deliberately causing my condition then I could potentially be stepping into a minefield. If I tell him I remember yesterday, he may realize I lied to him last night. He may know I didn't take the evening dose. But what if I lie now and fake a relapse of amnesia? I'm sure I could maintain the act for today, but what about tomorrow? How many times can I avoid taking the pill before he becomes suspicious? And what if he catches me in the lie? It could compromise the entire experiment.

The truth then. Or at least some degree of it. According to my notes, I told him about my unexpected improvement one month ago and he responded with trepidation, not suspicion. But my notes indicate that I didn't know whether I had taken the previous evening's dose or not. 

I will have to take my chances. Better to feign ignorance and make adjustments as needed than try to over-anticipate how he will react.

Henry's breath hitches and he makes a small noise in the back of his throat, like an aborted attempt at speech. I turn toward him as he rolls onto his back and my eyes fall to the burgeoning erection now outlined beneath the sheet.

Henry described my sexual advances the other day as especially aggressive. Was I hoping he wouldn't notice I hadn't taken my evening dose if I distracted him sufficiently? Did I forget anyway because he noticed and made me take it after all?

I pull the sheet down gently, exposing him completely. His penis lies against his hip, swelling lazily. I remember the first time I noticed the cycles the male reproductive system goes through every night, mortified to find myself waking up hard after dreams that weren't even remotely sexual in nature. These days, I've learned to mostly ignore it. It's quite fascinating to watch it happen to somebody else, however.

I run my fingers along the inside of his thigh and watch his cock twitch slightly. I slide closer, positioning myself over his lower body, and kiss a slow, soft trail over his abdomen, feeling the wispy hairs tickle my nose. He hums and shifts, his legs parting further, his body welcoming my attention without conscious thought.

I grip his hips gently, my fingers fitting over the faint bruises already coloring his skin, and lick the head of his cock before taking it into my mouth. His pre-seminal fluid is already bitter, but he probably lives on tea and coffee, so that's to be expected.

He sighs and hums, his back arching languidly as he wakes. His hips thrust instinctively in my grip. I hold tighter. He mumbles something indistinct, his voice still thick with sleep, and his fingers tangle in my hair, massaging the back of my head clumsily. His cock swells in my mouth and I shift so I can take it more easily, applying a bit more suction now.

He gasps and stills. "Oh...Will..."

Suddenly he's pushing me away, sitting up. "What..." He cups my face between his palms and coaxes me to look into his eyes. "You remember," he breathes.

I say nothing, watching silently as surprise, hope and then apprehension flit across his face in quick succession. I wait for the anger. For the realization that I have uncovered his deception. But it doesn't come. Will it happen later when he notices the tablet is missing? Will he demand to know where I stashed it? Has this happened before?

I am working on a lie, but I don't want to use it until it becomes necessary. I don't know if I can count on myself to remember anything I tell him.

"Are you all right," he asks warily.

Oh. Right. I became sick last time I regained my memories. Is he expecting that to happen again? Does he know what caused it? 

"I'm fine." 

There is something else in his eyes - something more guarded. Disgust? Fear? But of what? He can't be afraid of me, can he?

I have a sudden memory of holding him down, fucking him brutally into the mattress, his neck arched back as if to scream.

False? Real? I can't tell. I shake it away. 

"Is..." I put my hand on his thigh. "Is this okay? I thought after last night..." I trail off, letting him finish the thought himself. "If you would rather penetrate me, I can try to locate the lubricant."

A short chuckle bursts from him, surprising us both, it seems. "No, what you were doing was fine. Very good, in fact."

"Then why did you stop me," I ask innocently.

That seems to catch him off guard. He searches my face again, something like confusion in his eyes. He lies back slowly, uncertainly, and waits to see what I will do.

I am potentially playing a dangerous game here. This is about more than sex. Right now, I hold all the power over him, but I have no doubt he could take that back from me in an instant if I push too far. He may seem willing to trust me...or at least he wants me to believe he does. But is he testing me? To what end? 

I curl my hands behind his knees and pull him toward me, sliding him down the bed and spreading his legs on either side of me. He gasps, but does not protest the vulnerable position. I run my hands up the insides of his thighs, opening them wider.

He hisses as I roll his balls gently with the fingers of one hand and sighs as I wrap the other around the base of his cock. I bend to take him in my mouth again and he moans. 

"Will..."

It takes a few tries to establish a comfortable rhythm and then I am merciless. There's just one problem. He seems to be having trouble maintaining an erection. I angle my head so I can look up at him. His eyes are on the ceiling. Obviously he is distracted. 

I pull off, wet the forefinger of the hand on his balls with saliva and thrust it inside him, finding his prostate easily. He makes a noise like a choked whimper and his cock twitches and fills my mouth. I set up a new rhythm, which I am able to maintain for a few minutes before my jaw begins to ache, but I still can't seem to keep his focus.

And that's when his alarm blares.

I pull off him and sit back as he fumbles for his mobile and silences it. The erection I fought so hard to maintain wilts entirely.

He sighs and pulls me into a kiss. "I'm sorry love. That was rubbish. Do you need to finish..."

I consider asking where the lube is so I can fuck him properly, but that would take too long. Besides, I am not particularly in the mood for it either. And I can feel the beginnings of a migraine threatening. "It's fine," I say, resigned, and roll back to "my" side of the bed.

He pulls my hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips to my ring. "I'm sorry," he repeats. Then he crawls from the bed and disappears into the bath.

I stare at the ceiling, thinking, while he showers. I go into my mind palace - to 221b - and retrieve the ring from the music stand. I hesitate as I notice something odd about it. I step closer to the window, holding it up to the light. There are faint markings on the inside that I don't remember seeing last night. An inscription of some sort, but too small to make out.

"He's worried about you."

I freeze. I would know that voice anywhere. I turn slowly, almost expecting to find it had just been a figment of my imagination. But John Watson is sitting in his chair by the mantle, reading a newspaper. My John Watson, in modern trousers and soft jumper. Clean shaven. 

I realize suddenly that I am still naked. This is not unusual. Why would I bother imagining myself wearing clothing? I have a brief, irrational impulse to find something to cover myself, but I brush it aside. 

"John." 

That can't possibly be my voice, can it? It sounds too high and broken. 

He folds the paper and smiles up at me. 

"You're..." I stop myself before I can say "dead" like an idiot. He knows that. He's not real. He's just a projection, like Moriarty.

"Here," he finishes. "Of course I am." He sets the paper down and stands, moving closer to me as he speaks. "I am your conductor of light, remember?"

Right. This is why I always found myself speaking to him, even when he wasn't there. He once accused me of simply using him as a replacement for the skull on the mantle, but he always had an uncanny ability to help me focus when I became overwhelmed with data. For grounding me in reality and guiding me. He could see the client where I saw little more than an interesting case. "Worried?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? You've already worked it out."

"Henry loves me," I say slowly.

John nods encouragingly. 

"Whether the pills are to make me remember or make me forget, his basic drive is the same. He loves me and fears losing me." I rub at my temple, feeling the faint twinges of a headache again. "But I *know* this already. He isn't a danger to me."

"You still fail to grasp the situation," another voice says before my brother steps into the room from the kitchen. Has he been here the whole time or did he just sense an opportunity to prove that he is smarter than me? "You are so focused on solving the puzzle that you are not seeing the bigger picture."

"Which is?"

"Why?"

I concentrate, pulling together all of the fragments of thoughts and conflicting data and reformulate my hypothesis. "Either the pill is designed to make me forget because Henry wants to control me and force me to stay in this role as his husband..."

"Or your amnesia is real and he is genuinely treating you as a doctor and concerned husband," John finishes.

I focus on John's face. On the soft, sentimental look in his eyes. "Either way, he loves you," he continues. "And he wants you to love him too. The question is whether he is trying to achieve that by manipulation or hoping you will come around to it in your own time."

"It's too late, I'm afraid, Doctor Watson. My brother is already in far too deep."

I glare at Mycroft. "How do you figure that?"

Mycroft scoffs. "Please. He's an intelligent doctor who practically worships you. You can't help but become attached."

I feel a snarl building at the back of my throat. I've already come to something like this conclusion myself, but hearing it from Mycroft in that smug tone...even in my mind palace, he is insufferable.

John takes my hands in his. "Look at me," he says softly.

I look into his face and try to forget my brother's presence. 

"You know what is really going on. This has happened before. You have the answers. You just need to find them again."

"I miss you," I mumble. 

He just smiles, a bit of sadness in his eyes, and I have a momentary thought that wherever he is perhaps he misses me too. But that's absurd, of course. The dead don't miss the living.

I return to the bedroom and realize Henry has already finished his shower and is now in the kitchen making breakfast. I wash up a bit, wrap myself in my dressing gown and join him.


	11. Day 3, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quickly turning into a novel-length story. Bear with me, even if I'm not totally sure how I'm going to get there, I KNOW where I'm going with this! (Said my dad before getting my family lost in a cornfield somewhere)
> 
> This chapter will feature vomiting, a brief appearance by Mary and Rosie, and Henry giving flowery declarations of love in French.

_I return to the bedroom and realize Henry has already finished his shower and is now in the kitchen making breakfast. I wash up a bit, wrap myself in my dressing gown and join him._

I smell bacon before I reach the kitchen. Henry barely looks up from the pan of eggs he's scrambling and asks "did you eat anything last night?"

I hesitate a moment, wondering if I should make an excuse, before deciding that he must be used to my habits. "No. I wasn't hungry."

He spoons a generous helping of egg onto a plate with a wedge of toast and a couple slices of bacon before handing it to me. "Then eat that and don't argue with me."

I take the plate to the table, where he has already placed a full glass of juice and the morning tablet. I pick up the tablet and, still feeling Henry watching from the corner of his eye, perform a simple sleight of hand, feigning swallowing it, then drink the juice. When I am certain he isn't looking, I slip the tablet into my pocket. It was far too easy. And if he retrieved this pill from the container, he must have noticed last night's dose is missing. This presents two possible solutions. Either he thinks I'm taking the pills and they are or aren't working depending on their intended purpose, or he knows I'm not taking them but isn't confronting me about it. But why?

This will all make more sense when I know what the pills do. In the meantime, I'm afraid all this doubt and second guessing will drive me insane.

I reach for the honey automatically and spread some on my toast before offering the jar to Henry as he joins me at the table. 

"Ah, no." He holds up a similar jar filled with jam. "Never much cared for honey. Is that the label Lillian was working on?"

I tilt the jar so he can see it better. "Yes. Do you like it?"

He smiles a little. "She's very talented. Do you really think you'll have enough to sell?"

"Not sure yet. Maybe later. I just wanted to be ready."

"Mmm."

We lapse into silence as we begin eating. The food seems to calm my stomach a bit. 

"So what were you doing yesterday when I called that prompted you to answer in French?"

For an alarming moment I can't remember. Then I realize that's because I filed his language skills away with other details that I deemed irrelevant and not because I have actually forgotten. "Your volunteer work for Médecin Sans Frontières were mostly in French speaking countries. I was testing a theory."

I think I feel him relax a little at that. Interesting.

"Je t'aime de tout mon coeur, mon chéri," he says suddenly. "Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi. Je ne veux pas vivre sans toi. J'ai le sens qu'un lien invisible entre ton couer et le mien. Et si quel que chose à briser ce lien, mon coeur cesserait de battre et je mourrais. Je suis a toi, pour toujours."

He lifts my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to my fingers. I have a sudden, wild urge to tell him everything. To compel him somehow to give me the answers I want.

I bite my tongue. Not yet.

He must see something in my face because he huffs in amusement. "Yes, I know. Sentiment. I am wearing you down, though. Six months ago, you would have mocked me for that."

"Six months ago, I wouldn't have remembered you coming home practically in tears because you lost a patient that reminded you of me."

The fork he had picked up again freezes halfway to his mouth and he sets it back down. "He didn't look anything like you. I just..."

"I know. You had to tell his wife."

"Not yet. She hasn't woken up. She doesn't know." He picks at the remainders of his breakfast, decides he isn't hungry and turns his attention on his tea.

This could partly explain his lack of interest this morning. He is anticipating having to deliver the news to the grieving widow today.

"Will...I'm sure you recorded in those notes you keep what happened to you the last two times you made a miraculous recovery like this. I want to believe that won't happen again, but it would be foolish to ignore the pattern. If you experience anything like the symptoms you described in your notes, I want you to ring me immediately. 

He doesn't know why it's happening? Or he wants me to think he doesn't? If he thinks the pills are treating a real condition, he might believe they are simply working. But why would I be getting sick then? On the other hand, if they are causing it, wouldn't he realize I wasn't taking them? Why would he allow for a possibility that it won't happen?

His love for me may be clear, but his behaviors are still confounding.

"Will?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll call you if I am ill."

He nods and falls silent for a while. I finish my breakfast. He continues to push his around his plate distractedly while he drinks his tea. He seems to be avoiding what he really wants to say just as much as I am.

"You kept asking for him," he says, breaking the silence abruptly. "Demanding to speak to him. You didn't believe he was dead. You were convinced I was lying to you. Keeping him from you. When I first showed you the autopsy report and you saw the picture of his body..." He closes his eyes as if he is reliving the memory.

I wait a moment for him to continue. He doesn't. "What happened to the picture?"

He looks dazed for a moment. As if he was so lost in his memories he forgot where he was. "Ah...after a few weeks you made me promise never to show it to you again."

"How many times?"

He understands the question without needing clarification. "Three. I couldn't stand watching you go through that anymore so I destroyed it after that."

He sighs and sets his fork down again. "Look...I know I can never live up to John Watson, but I would move heaven and Earth if it would prove to you the depth of my loyalty and love."*

"You don't have to," I say quietly. "It's obvious."

He blinks, makes a couple aborted attempts at speech, then gets up to clear his breakfast dishes, turning his back to me. 

Emboldened by this confirmation of how much leverage I have in this relationship, I follow and wrap my arms around him. I kiss his neck, taking full advantage of the fact that I actually remember just how sensitive he is there.

His breath catches and the tension eases from his shoulders. The dishes he was rinsing clatter unceremoniously to the sink. He turns the faucet off and leans into me, tilting his head to give me better access.

It would be so easy to take control, to convince him that he can trust me, I think as I trail kisses up to the hinge of his jaw. All I have to do is play the role he wants me to play. "Je t'aime, mon mari," I whisper in his ear.

He goes still. His breathing stops for a moment. Then he turns in my arms. I go to kiss his lips, but his hands on my chest hold me at bay. He searches my face, tiny frown lines appearing between his eyebrows.

I give him my best sheepish smile. "Sorry. I guess it's easier to say it in French."

He relaxes a bit and this time when I go to kiss him, he lets me. 

"I have to go to work," he mumbles after a few lazy kisses.

I hum and nip at his chin before starting down the other side of his throat. 

He makes a choked whimpering sort of noise and tangles his hand in my hair, guiding me back to his lips. "Later," he whispers into my mouth. He kisses me one more time before reluctantly prying himself away, wobbling for a moment or two and straightening his clothes somewhat dazedly. 

"The keys are in the..." he begins before faltering. "You know that. Right."

I watch in amusement as he fishes his car keys from the bowl. He comes back for one last kiss - this time a chaste one on my cheek. "Call me," he says again.

I finish loading the dishes into the washer, listening as he retrieves his coat. Once I am sure he is gone, I retrieve my mobile from the counter, locate Lillian's number in the contacts and press "call".

*************

I don't tell Lillian what the pills are for. I say they are part of an experiment and that Henry must not know about it. As I suspected, her distrust of Henry is strong enough that she agrees easily, although she warns me that it may take a while to convince someone in the lab to run an analysis. 

It isn't until after I leave the tablets with her that I think to collect a DNA sample from the rim of the glass Henry left in my study/lab. I'm not sure I will need it, really, but the opportunity to collect information seemed to good to pass up. I save the sample in a drawer and note it in the journal on the memory stick, along with more details about last night and this morning.

'The purpose of the tablets aside, it is clear to me that whatever is going on here is more complicated than I originally assumed. If he is doing something to insure I stay here with him, it is far more subtle and less physical than simply drugging me into compliance. I feel a connection to him. Maybe it's his obvious intelligence or maybe it's because he reminds me of John, but I find myself craving his company and finding pleasure in his affections. Much as I hate to admit it, Mycroft may have been right. Henry's devotion to me compels him to provide for my every need, both of the body and the mind.'

I stop typing as the mild nausea I'd been experiencing suddenly becomes a lot less mild and I have to expel the entirety of my breakfast into the toilet. Vomiting increases my headache. As I sit on the floor of the master bath waiting for it to subside, I nip into my mind palace for a bit and find Mary has taken John's place in the flat.

"You know he's lying to you," she says as she tries to settle Rosie on her hip. Rosie was still too young to be able to hold her head up when I last saw her, but I can easily imagine what she would look like now, months later. A perfect combination of John and Mary's features.

"Obviously. I just don't see what purpose it serves."

"Of course you do. That's why you're talking to me right now."

Rosie fills the silence with happy squealing noises as I contemplate the former assassin holding her, lightly bouncing her in an unconscious soothing motion. For all of her faults, she loved John. It was the one thing she never lied about. Their meeting may have been the result of a manipulation, but she genuinely cared about him.

"He's terrified of losing you," she says. "He will do whatever it takes to protect this life he's created for himself. This identity."

These last words trigger a realization. Mary Morstan was an assumed name. A fresh start. An orphan with few ties to others.

"His name isn't Henry."

"His *name* isn't important. Our names don't define who we are. You should understand that, William."

"No, but it might tell me who he *was*." I take off my wedding ring and squint at the inscription inside again. It's still mostly unintelligible, but I can almost make out a "T" and an "A" and something that is either a "J" or an "I". 

A phone rings, startling me back to the real world. I pull my mobile from my pocket and bite back a groan as I read Henry's name on the screen.

"I'm fine," I answer.

"Then why didn't you answer the first time I called?"

First time? "I forgot my mobile when I went to check the hive."

It's a terrible lie and I can tell he doesn't believe it. "I'm going to try to get someone to cover the last few hours of my shift so I can come home early."

"I'm *fine*," I repeat stubbornly.

"You probably can't hear it, love, but your breathing is slightly erratic and you are slurring your words."

"I'm. Fine. Just a bit peaky."

"You are a brilliant man, but you are shite at judging your health. Do you have a headache?"

"A bit," I mumble. 

"Take some paracetamol if you think you can hold it down. Drink some tea if you can't. I'll come home quick as I can manage."

"It's hardly an emergency."

He sighs. "I know sweetheart. But after yesterday, I don't think anyone would object to me getting off early to take care of my poorly husband."

I bite my tongue. Arguing any further would be pointless. And what would I gain? A few more hours of time to research and write in my secret journal? I still don't have any solid leads to follow yet.

"I love you."

I make a non committal noise. 

He hangs up. I take a deep breath and heave myself up from the floor. I will have to work faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The French translates as "I love you with all my heart, my darling. I can not live without you. I will not live without you. I feel as if there is a link between your heart and mine. And if anything were to break that link, my heart would cease to beat and I would die. I am yours, always." If the middle part of that sounds familiar, it's because I modified a quote from "Crimson Peak".
> 
> *This is an altered line from "The Three Garidebs", since Mofftiss weren't using it.


	12. Day 3, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...or does it?

I am straining to make out the inscription on my ring, but the letters are hopelessly garbled. TS? Are those initials? J-o...John? A-m-or...is that an n?

"Poor Sherlock," Moriarty lilts, appearing beside me. "Not so clever after all."

I lash out in frustration, only to find nothing but empty air in the direction his voice emanated from moments ago. 

I shake away the disorientation and continue typing, documenting everything and trying to predict the possible scenarios that could play out once Henry returns. Will he force me to take the tablet? Can I make him tell me what it does even if I will forget again tomorrow? TS. Why does that sound familiar?

My thoughts are tumbling over each other too quickly. Blurring. I can't tell what's real, what's a memory and what is wild speculation. 

I research my symptoms, which the wisdom of the Internet identifies as any number of things between food poisoning and Lupus. Possible side effects of certain medications or symptoms of withdrawal from others. In short, they could be the result of me taking the pill, not taking the pill or having a heretofore undiagnosed and possibly terminal illness.

What if none of this is real, I wonder. What if I'm still trapped in that car with a head injury and I'm lost in my mind palace?

Okay. Clearly that last one is absurd. It sounds like the plot of one of John's ridiculous movies. 

In a fit of madness, I attempt to call Mycroft. He doesn't answer, which is just as well. He would probably just assume I'm high.

I record as much as I possibly can on the memory stick and return it to the hive before the next wave of illness consumes me.

I am on the floor, my forehead pressed to something cool and hard. My face is burning, but my body is shivering.

I am on the floor of 221b. John is sitting beside me.

"This isn't a side effect. You are suffering from withdrawal."

"I know," I stammer through chattering teeth.

"You can't keep going like this. It could kill you."

"Don't th-think it's up to...me."

"Not entirely, no. But it might be easier if you don't fight him."

I roll on my back and frown up at John.

"Think about it. He said you were worse after the accident - the amount of time you could retain memory shorter. Your memory is improving and this is the second time in as many months that you have gone longer than twenty four hours without a relapse. Assuming the drugs are meant to *cause* the symptoms instead of treat them, the only reason that would be happening is if..."

"He's reducing the dosage," I finish. "He wants...to get me off-f the drugs, but he's afraid doing it t-too fast will kill me."

"He's probably right if this is a derivative of Benzodiazepine."

I groan and press my palms into my eyes. "But WHY. Why did he ne-ed me to forget in the first-t place? Who is he?"

"You know who he is," Moriarty's voice purrs. "You just don't remember."

I lash out blindly in his direction, this time feeling my fist strike solid flesh. The dark figure looming over me falls back with a yelp. I scramble in the opposite direction with the frantic intention of getting away. But I'm too tired. I can't think. I can't...

I stop fighting and everything goes black.

****************

A man is singing an old folk tune. Something just short of a lullaby. His voice is soft and clear. I can feel the vibrations of it in his chest, beneath my cheek. I hear a whimpering noise that can't possibly have come from me and he stops.

"Are you awake, love," Henry asks gently, nearly a whisper. As if he fears disturbing me from my sleep. 

"Mmm...s'nice..." I recall reading in my notes that my husband has a lovely singing voice. I wonder how often I've had chance to hear it. I try to shift in his arms, but my body feels leaden and something is preventing my arms from moving.

"Softly," Henry says. "Can you sit up?"

That seems to have been a rhetorical question as he unwraps the blanket he must have bundled me in, sets me upright and fumbles to unwind something from my wrists. He tied my hands with the sash from a dressing gown?

He lowers me to the floor, placing a pillow under my head, replacing the blanket and disappearing for a moment. I hear a cupboard open somewhere. Then his hands are brushing my hair from my forehead and inserting something plastic in my ear.

Aural thermometer, I realize when I hear a soft click and it is removed.

I finally manage to get my eyes open as he is readying some sort of equipment. I don't see what it is because I am too focused on his face and the angry red mark below his left eye that will doubtless turn into a bruise. That explains my tied hands. He couldn't trust me not to hit him again until he knew I was cognizant.

My focus snaps back to his hands as he rolls up my sleeve and wraps a rubber tourniquet around my arm. "No...what..." I try to sit up, but he presses me back down.

"Shh...it's all right."

He picks up a hypodermic and a bottle of medicine. I watch him draw the clear fluid into the needle with practiced efficiency, my mouth going dry. This is how he does it. He will inject me with the drug I failed to take willingly and I will forget all of this by tomorrow morning.

"No, don't..." I grab for his hands and try to wrest the needle from him. The sudden movement sets my stomach heaving and I get sick on Henry's shirt. There's nothing left in me but bile and it hurts to bring it up.

Henry wipes my face with a soft cloth and continues his efforts to reassure me that everything is "fine".

"Here," he murmurs, pressing the medicine bottle into my hand. "You can see for yourself. It's just an anti-emetic. And a mild sedative."

The label bears his claim out, though it's possible the label doesn't accurately reflect the contents of the bottle. It's also possible I am still paranoid.

Ultimately, does it matter? If what John said is true and this is withdrawal, I don't actually want to stop him giving me the drug, do I? Galling as it is to think that I am willingly participating in this deception, it is quite possible that the alternative is worse.

I close my eyes and force myself to stay still as he injects the contents of the needle into my veins. Even though it shouldn't, it feels like a defeat. Though I am not quite sure who the victor is in this. I doubt it's Henry if his goal really is to wean me off the drug.

"What's your name," I ask. I doubt I will remember any of this, but I need to know. 

He looks alarmed. He checks my pupils as he says "I'm Henry, darling. I'm your husband."

"No, I mean your real name."

Understanding washes over his face. "Henry is my real name, love." He starts unbuttoning my shirt. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"It may be now, but it wasn't always, was it?"

He hesitates before sliding my joggers off. "You are not the only one with a past you would rather forget, *Sherlock*."

A general feeling of discomfort rolls through me, dulled by the drug he injected. 

He stands and strips down to his pants, carefully setting aside any articles of clothing that have sick on them. Then he turns on the tap in the shower and reaches for me.

He doesn't say anything else as he supports me under the spray, washing sweat and sick from my body with practiced efficiency. 

He fetches fresh clothes for me while I towel myself dry, dresses himself in joggers and a soft pullover, then leaves me with instructions to meet him in the kitchen.

I move slowly, gingerly, as if any sudden movement might bring about the nausea again, although the symptoms seem to be going away.

Henry is at the kitchen table, texting on his mobile when I make it down the stairs. He sets it down and invites me to sit while he goes to the stove to pour tea from the kettle.

I peek at his phone, guessing the lock code on the first try (the date on our marriage certificate, obvious) and find the message he just sent still on the screen. 'Just a minor setback. Everything is under control now.'

It was sent to Mycroft.

Henry sets a mug down in front of me and takes the mobile from my hand. "He was concerned. He said he got a strange hang up from you."

"And of course he called you because he would never trust my assessment of my own mental state," I mutter. I swirl the tea bag in the steaming water, watching it turn darker. The text is more convincing than any other evidence I have uncovered so far to support the theory that my condition is real. Mycroft trusts Henry to watch over me and report back to him. Just as he once did with John.

I sip at the tea. It is herbal. Medicinal. Soothing.

"My name is James," my husband says softly. "Or it was. And this isn't the first time you've caught me out. But I didn't lie to you. Not exactly."

He plays with the paper tab attached to the tea bag. It is a different color than the one on mine, I note. The tea smells like some sort of citrus.

"James what?"

He winces. "I can't bear to say it anymore. It was *his* name."

"Your father?"

"No. I barely knew my father. My ex." He takes a deep breath. "I became very good at hiding the bruises...the broken ribs..."

I frantically try to remember reading anything about this in my journals. "He beat you?"

James...no, Henry averts his eyes from me. "He was schizophrenic, although we didn't know that initially. We were young, still in Uni. His symptoms didn't even begin to manifest until a year after we were married. He...he was lovely when he remembered to take his medicine, but..." He hesitates and reaches for his shirt, pulling the hem up to reveal the scar I noted last night on his abdomen. "He became convinced I was sent by the government to spy on him. He got hold of a kitchen knife and attacked me. Luckily he wasn't very skilled with weapons."

My eyes travel from the old scar to the new bruise I have given him. I have no idea if the story he is telling me is true, but if it is it would suggest he makes a habit of marrying men with obvious mental instabilities.

Or the side effects of the drug he gave his previous husband resulted in far more violent behavior. 

Henry lets the shirt fall again, covering the scar as he reaches for my hand. "You are nothing like him, darling."

"Am I?"

I let the question hang in the air for a few moments, waiting for him to say something. Anything. Finally, I decide there is no point in being cautious now. It is highly probable I won't remember any of this and he knows that. I can get my answers, even if I can't guarantee I will remember them. 

"I know the drug isn't meant to help me remember. It's to make me forget."

I watch his reaction carefully for a spark of anger or surprise, but there is none. He looks almost relieved. "Yes."

That was easier than I expected. "Why?"

"Because you asked me to."

That can't possibly be true. Can it? "Why," I repeat. "That doesn't make sense."

He sighs and lets go of my hand. "Would you like some more tea?"

"No, I would like some answers."

"I'm coming to that." He retrieves a plate of biscuits from the center of the table and pushes it toward me. "Eat some of these."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours without sicking everything back up. You'll feel better if you put something in your stomach."

"Does the drug cause nausea if it's taken on an empty stomach?"

He frowns. "You still think it was in the injection I gave you, don't you?"

I stare at him silently.

"What did you do with the pills you didn't take?"

"Toilet." It's an easy enough lie.

He nods. "Right. Okay. From the beginning." He takes a healthy swallow of his tea and leans toward me, clearing his throat. "You got a concussion in the accident. For several days you were confused and suffering frequent lapses in memory. You asked for John repeatedly and became upset when I reminded you of what had happened. I gave you benzodiazepine to relax you and help you sleep. As long as you were in hospital, I could control the dosage. But when you were released you started experimenting with different cocktails, designing your own custom blend that you hoped would make you forget. You said you couldn't bear it any longer. You wanted to 'delete' your memory of John Watson entirely. It didn't work, of course, but by the time you realized your mistake you had developed a dependency. Mycroft couldn't get through to you anymore, so he called me."

"I wasn't living with you already?"

Henry glances at the laptop charging on the counter. "No. You were still in the flat you shared with John, which I'm sure is part of the reason your plan didn't work." He finishes his tea as he gathers his thoughts. "Your dependency on the drug made simply stopping it too dangerous. Mycroft and I devised a plan to reduce the dosage gradually. You moved in with me so I could better monitor your progress and hopefully keep you from relapsing."

"Why didn't you just tell me this? Why construct an elaborate lie about a rare amnesia?"

"We didn't at first. But we all came to agree that it was the best and safest way to manage your condition. You've read your notes. The articles. You can become quite paranoid and violent." 

I remember twisting his arm behind his back and shoving him into a wall. Or was that Mycroft? "Who agreed?"

"You, me and Mycroft."

A sharp bark of a laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Of course. So is any of it true?" I take another sip of tea and hold up my left ring finger. "Whose idea was this?"

He flinches. "The only lie is in the exact nature of your condition. We had to alter the events of the first few weeks, but you helped by writing those notes and letters." His hand covers my arm and he waits until I meet his gaze. "This is real. I fell in love with you. And despite your insistence that you don't feel such emotions, I like to think that you love me too in your own way."

It sounds plausible. It makes sense. But I'm pretty sure the only part of the story that is absolutely true is the last. His love for me and our marriage. The rest may contain certain elements of the truth, but I am not certain where those truths give way to lies and what purpose those lies serve. 

I slowly reach for a biscuit and take a small bite. It is plain. Bland. The kind one would eat to avoid upsetting their stomach.

Henry smiles and reaches to toy with my hair, smoothing rumpled curls into some sort of order. "One day this will all be over, darling. One day you won't need the drug anymore and your memory will be restored." 

I'm not sure if that would be better or worse than the alternative. 

Henry stands suddenly and goes to the sink to pour a glass of water. He fetches the pill box from the cupboard and shakes the pre-sorted tablet designated for tonight into his palm.

He sets the tablet and glass on the table before me as he returns to his seat. "I will not force you to take it, but as your doctor I strongly advise it. It is quite possible for your symptoms to get worse. Withdrawal from this could kill you. And as your husband who loves you desperately, I beg you not to take that risk."

He doesn't need to appeal to my sympathy. I may be drawn to danger and risky behavior, but regardless of how that makes me look to the casual observer, I don't want to die.

Still, I hesitate a while before picking up the tablet. Even longer before swallowing it.

Henry's smile as I set the empty glass back down is not one of victory, but rather relief. I may have doubts about some of the details of the stories he has just told me, but there are a few things I can be reasonably certain of. The drug is causing my memory loss, but Henry is carefully controlling the dosage - likely reducing it gradually. He fears losing me and the trauma of losing his patient yesterday coupled with the potential danger I faced with the onset of withdrawal today genuinely terrified him.

"You should rest. I'll wake you when dinner is ready."

I begin to protest, but think better of it. I can use the time to write in my journal and maybe call Mycroft. I nod.

He smiles, kisses my forehead and clears the empty teacups from the table. 

I retrieve the charged laptop and retreat into the bedroom.


	13. Day 3, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some emotional angst and some foreplay that doesn't lead to actual sex. Sorry. :)

"Will," a voice calls gently. A hand rubs my shoulder. "Wake up, darling."

For a moment I struggle to remember where I am. The voice calling me is familiar, but I can't place his name. I open my eyes and focus on the dark haired man sitting beside me. James? No...Henry.

The fog lifts slowly and I reach for the laptop I remember using moments - minutes? hours? - ago. 

"It's in the kitchen, charging."

I hesitate. "Did you read it?"

"Just the last bit. Sorry. I try to respect your privacy, but you left it open."

How many times has he used that excuse? I'm pretty sure I didn't write anything damning as I knew it was a possibility he would read it. He couldn't possibly have changed anything in it yet, could he?

I roll onto my back and look up at him. "You said you would wake me when dinner was ready."

"I've only started it, but I thought I should check with you, see how you feel."

"Mmm...better." I can smell cooked meat now, spiced with some sort of herbs. 

"Think you can handle Spaghetti Bolognese?" 

Basil and oregano. That's the smell. "Sounds lovely." I'm not really surprised to find that I actually am hungry. It's been more than twenty-four hours since I last ate and I don't have any work requiring my full mental focus at the moment. Then again, it could be a side effect of the drug.

He smiles, gives my arm a squeeze and stands to leave. Then he hesitates a moment. "Would you like me to bring the laptop back?"

"No. I'll come down."

I wait until he is back in the kitchen before I attempt getting up. I am amazed by how much better I feel. My head is clearer. The queasiness is entirely gone. I realize this is probably why I have stayed with Henry. Why I continue to take the "medicine" of my own free will. But there doesn't seem to be much harm in continuing like this. Or, more accurately, there is far greater harm in *not* allowing Henry to continue his treatment.

Assuming he really is decreasing the dosage. I frown at the wall over the toilet as I empty my bladder. Did I reach that conclusion myself or did he tell me that's what he's doing?

No, I'm pretty sure I deduced it.

Henry is stirring a pot of sauce at the stove when I reach the kitchen. There is a laptop open on the table, but it doesn't look familiar. I peek at the screen to find it open to what looks like Henry's work email. 

"Yours is on the counter."

I look up, startled, but he doesn't seem to have even turned his head. I remember Mary doing that. 'I have eyes in the back of my head,' she joked. 'I always know what you're doing.'

I retrieve my laptop from the counter where it was charging and take it to the seat across from Henry's.

Henry fills a glass with water from the tap and sets it beside me as he returns to the table. "You should stay hydrated."

I thank him automatically. It isn't until I notice his hesitation before sitting back down that I realize the exact words I used were 'thanks, John.' "I'm sorry, I..."

"No." He waves me off. "It's all right. I'm used to it."

Didn't Molly once say I do that to a lot of people? I shrug it off. Henry is already focused on his computer screen, the moment forgotten. I sip at the water and focus on my own, which is still open to my journal. A random jumble of letters at the bottom suggests I fell asleep as I was typing.

I review the entry for today, not really expecting to find anything different from what I remember yet. Except I remember talking to Lillian this morning. Did I not note that? What did we talk about?

Oh. Right. I gave her the pills. Did I note that in the other journal before returning it to the hive? What did I tell Henry I did with the pills? Flush them?

And then I come to a baffling note between the list of developing symptoms and wild speculations about their causes and waking up to Henry singing.

'Called Mycroft. Left a message on his voicemail. I don't remember what I said, exactly, but it must have alarmed him enough to call Henry and compel him to come home more quickly.'

I remember calling Mycroft twice today. Granted, my memory of the first call is hazy, but I don't remember leaving a message.

I pull up the phone history on my mobile. There are two calls to Mycroft in the recent history, as expected. One for a duration of just under three seconds, which was probably as long as I listened to the generic outgoing message he never bothered to change before hanging up. The other call, however, is logged as lasting one minute and forty-three seconds. Long enough for me to have left a message. But I didn't leave a message...did I? I try to recall details from before I lost consciousness, but the memories are too corrupted. I can't remember what was real and what was in my mind palace. 

"Something wrong?"

I shake myself and meet Henry's questioning gaze. "No, I just...have you spoken to Mycroft recently?"

"Not since he called me this afternoon. Why?"

"What did he say?"

"He was worried about you. Apparently you left a barely coherent voicemail about the medicine making you sick and my name not being Henry. You don't remember that?"

I stare at the call log, trying to make sense of this evidence. I remember speaking to Mycroft today, but only in my mind palace. My sense of reality at the time the call was logged is highly suspect, but I do remember trying to call him. And I remember telling somebody my suspicions about the drug's true purpose and Henry's false identity. Could I have done something I don't remember doing while I was lost in my head?

Henry comes around the table suddenly, taking the mobile from my hands and setting it aside. "It's all right, darling," he says, squeezing my hands. "You were very ill. I'm guessing you don't remember accusing me of trying to take advantage of you either. You thought I was Moriarty."

I think I remember that part, but now I'm not certain of anything. A wave of depression washes over me as I come to several realizations at once. It is already starting. I am forgetting. Soon, I won't remember anything I haven't written in my journal for the past forty-eight hours. I won't remember the memory stick in the hive. I may not even be able to record anything more on it until Monday when Henry goes back to work. And there's nothing I can do to stop it.

"Is this what Alzheimer's feels like," I ask numbly. 

I see genuine pain and sympathy cross Henry's face before he gathers me in his arms. In a way, he is suffering through this with me. Whatever this is. He doesn't want me to forget him, but he doesn't want to lose me either. 

I cling to him, pathetically grateful for his presence and strength, letting the feeble words of comfort he murmurs in my ear soothe my fraying nerves. 

"I love you," he whispers.

'I know,' I think as I bury my face in his neck.

**************

I can't sleep. My mind is racing, but it is stuck on the same frustrating loop. For whatever reason, when I sleep I will forget. I have chosen this artificial state of amnesia willingly. I feel helpless to stop it, but fighting seems pointless. If I stop taking the drug, the withdrawal could kill me. I guess in a way, it was inevitable I would end up like this eventually. But instead of dying alone and pathetic on the floor of the flat I used to share with John, I am living the life I always thought I would after I retired from consulting work, being cared for by a man who loves me more than I deserve.

I turn to look at him laying beside me. He isn't asleep yet, but he's making a valiant effort. I go over his features again in the dim twilight of the bedroom, storing details in my mind palace even though I don't know if I will be able to retrieve them in full later or if, like the scribblings on my ring, they will be corrupted. Have I done this before? Is that why I recognize him even if I am unsure of who he is?

I quickly realize that simply looking isn't enough. I slip closer and press my lips to his shoulder.

"Mmm...can't sleep?"

I hum vaguely and kiss a trail up his neck, feeling the texture of his skin beneath my lips, the roughness of his stubble.

He shifts slightly, welcoming my attentions, but murmurs "not sure I'm up for it tonight, love."

I catch his gaze as his eyes open, the ocean blue muted in the darkness. "I'm not expecting anything." I kiss his lips lightly. "You can sleep if you like."

He chuckles as I resume kissing back down his throat, creating a pleasant vibration against my lips. "I see. So I'm just to be a living sex doll for you to rut against, am I?"

I let my teeth sink into the meatiest part of his pectoral muscle until he hisses. "No," I murmur into his skin before turning his attention on his nipples, making his breath catch. 

"That wasn't an objection."

"Mmm." He is sensitive here too. I experiment with different combinations of lips, tongue and fingers until they stiffen. He twines his fingers in my hair lazily, gently encouraging my attentions.

He makes a small whimpering sort of noise as I trace the scar on his abdomen with a series of soft, almost reverent kisses.

He squirms as I run my fingers along the gently stirring length of his penis. I keep my touch light and careful, just feeling the weight of it, the texture of the skin. I wonder how many times I've touched him like this. Made him come apart. Made him beg.

I give a quick kiss to the still soft shaft and crawl back up the bed, draping myself over him and tucking my head into the curve of his neck. 

He chuckles and wraps his arms around me. "Git."

I twine our legs together, deliberately pressing my own disinterested cock into his hip. Neither of us is in any state to be engaging in anything more strenuous than heavy petting tonight. He is still tired and stressed and I am still recovering. My explorations hadn't been about sex. I wasn't entirely certain what they had been about, really. I just felt a need to try to understand him. To know him on a more visceral level than my notes could convey. I try to store some of the details in my mind palace - the smell of him, the taste of his skin, the sound he makes when I scrape my teeth over sensitive flesh - even though I know I probably won't be able to recover the data.

Henry seems to understand. He holds me tightly, tilting my chin up so he can kiss my forehead, my cheeks, my lips. He doesn't say anything, yet I sense this is an apology. I hold tight and let him soothe me into a restless sleep.

***************  
Day 4

I wake in an unfamiliar bed. This by itself wouldn't be odd if not for the clear evidence that until recently I was not alone.

And I am naked.

I don't feel hung-over, yet I don't remember last night. I have bruises on my body that suggest a carnal encounter, but they appear days old.

There is a note on the pillow beside me in an unfamiliar handwriting, instructing me to read the contents of a folder on the kitchen table. Intrigued, I wrap myself in a dressing gown that is curiously both familiar and unfamiliar and search for the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Bolognese thing might have happened because of the interview where Tom was raving about it. I'm not sorry.


	14. Day 4, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry about the delay in updates. Everything has gotten so crazy in my life right now that the last time I tried to post this chapter I literally got right up to the point where I could hit "post" and then all hell broke loose and I had to shut down the computer. I AM still writing, just slowly.
> 
> This chapter is mostly shameless smut with Top!Sherlock. You have been warned.

I have just gotten to the pictures from our honeymoon when Henry returns to the house, sweaty and out of breath from his run. 

He kisses the top of my head on his way to the sink for a glass of water. "Morning, love."

I instinctively touch the spot his lips just touched and discover a still-healing scar just near it. Obviously from the accident.

"Leave it be," Henry says without looking at me and I snatch my hand away instinctively. Interesting. This must be a routine exchange for us.

He leans against the counter, sipping his water. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Er...no. Not hungry."

"You never are. You should at least take your pill."

I look at the tablet he left sitting beside the folder along with a glass. I had filled the glass with water while the laptop was booting, but I couldn't quite bring myself to take the pill yet. It looked harmless enough, but I was wary of taking drugs I couldn't easily identify, even if my notes claim it is an experimental form of nootropic that I helped design myself.

Henry sidles closer to get a closer look at the laptop screen, currently displaying a picture I had obviously taken of him post-coital, grinning happily, his abdomen smeared with seminal fluid.

"Ah. Venice," he murmurs. "We didn't leave that hotel room for four days." He ghosts his finger over the screen, tracing the line of his own hip. "You can't make out the bruises yet. As I recall, this was the afternoon you decided to test your ability to make me come untouched. It took you nearly an hour from start to finish, but you managed."

An image springs to mind of Henry pinned to a bed beneath me, crying out brokenly. But I'm not sure if it's a memory or my mind simply offering it up as speculation. Combined with Henry's current proximity, it is having a curious effect on me. Possibly because he is still sweaty and slightly breathless, so I can readily imagine what he would look like after a vigorous round of shagging. I swallow, force my breathing to remain even, and reach for the laptop trackpad, opening a different image. This one is of Henry reaching for me, a dark, hungry look in his eyes, his cock very erect. "What about this one?"

Henry chuckles. "That was after you spent dinner flirting with the waiter. You knew it would make me jealous. You were trying to wind me up. I got a bit...possessive."

This time the image is clear. Henry looming over me, pinning me down, growling "you're MINE" in a low voice. Definitely a memory.

I am beginning to feel warm despite the lingering chill in the air from his reentry into the house. "Is that how you got that," I ask, gesturing at the bruise beneath his left eye. "By being possessive?"

He glances down at my hands. "No, that was an accident."

Suddenly the soreness I feel in the knuckles of my right hand makes sense.

"Can I show you my favorite picture," he asks, already scrolling through images, this most recent curious detail seemingly forgotten. He locates an image of my sprawled on a bed. Compared with some of the other images in the folder, it is unremarkable. I am naked, but there is nothing particularly sexual about it. I look like I am half asleep. "This was our first night in Paris," he explains. "We were exhausted from the long trip, changing from train to tube to cab. The room had a nice, big bath, which is rather unusual for a hotel like that. We shared a shower, practically holding each other upright while we cleaned the grime of the underground off." 

Henry slips behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest, his warm breath tickling my ear as he continues. "We were too exhausted to have sex properly, but we couldn't keep our hands off each other. Couldn't stop exploring. Practically giddy with the knowledge that we were really married. On honeymoon in the city of love." He kisses my neck tenderly. "It was gloriously intimate. Sensual if not sexual. We fell asleep tangled up in each other. I have never felt closer to you. Or any other man for that matter." He nuzzles beneath my ear in a way that makes me shiver involuntarily. "You haven't showered yet today?"

"Er...no," I answer belatedly. 

I feel him smile. "Join me," he murmurs in my ear before he nips the lobe. He dips one hand between my legs to fleetingly cup my burgeoning erection and then he's gone, headed for the bath.

No, it can't be that easy.

I force myself to focus on the words on the screen, skimming through the last few months of entries. Aside from a mysterious altercation with one neighbor and efforts to help the other identify a cause of death for a 16th century skull, it seems fairly mundane. Domestic. Dull enough, apparently, that I spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing over my bee colony in the back garden. But the unique challenges of my condition provide adequate distraction and my determination to improve my treatment of it seems to be paying off. Just yesterday, I woke with my memory intact for the second time in as many months.

Treatment. Right. The pill.

I swallow the tablet and try to focus on the screen again. But this proves difficult as I can hear the water running in the upstairs bath. Once I find an email wherein Henry rather colorfully announces his intentions to perform analingus on me, all hope of concentration is lost.

People seem determined to make assumptions about my sex life - or presumed lack thereof. I've never understood why people make such a fuss over something so trivial, so primitive. But I am human and not above being aroused by the thought of taking my very attractive husband up on his offer.

I check the clock in the corner of the laptop screen. I will have plenty of time for this later, taking into account the average time needed for a healthy adult male to achieve orgasm.

I close the laptop and make for the upstairs bath.

*************

"Not yet," he pleads.

I snatch my hand away from his bobbing erection and grip his hip instead, steadying him as he leans back until my cock is at the desired angle inside him, as indicated by his contented sigh and faint shudder.

A primitive noise escapes my throat at the sight of Henry riding me, his eyes unfocused, panting with exertion. I run my hands over his skin, feeling the muscles in his thighs tremble with the effort of controlling his movements, his abdominals quiver as I trace an old scar.

My hands settle on his backside, pulling him tight against me and he growls. I manage to sit up without dislodging him and take full advantage of the discovery I made in the shower that his neck is especially sensitive.

He tangles one hand in my hair encouragingly, the other gripping my shoulder, bracing himself as he continues to roll his hips.

It is awkward and I can't thrust properly, so after a moment I lose my patience with this arrangement and pull him back down to the mattress, rolling us over, slipping free only for a moment. He groans as I push back inside, arching his back. "Love it when you get rough with me," he breathes.

"I know."

He laughs and reaches a hand for his cock, stroking languidly, drawing it out.

I swat his hand away. "Not yet."

He makes a mewling sort of noise and pulls me into an uncoordinated kiss that is all tongues and teeth.

"Nearly an hour you said?" I gasp into his mouth.

"Not gonna last that long, love," he pants, squirming beneath me as if to illustrate.

Neither will I. Despite the obvious evidence that we have had sex regularly - recently even - and the nagging sense of familiarity I have with so many things about my new life, this still feels new and overwhelming. I can feel the tension building fast, the pleasure curling in my abdomen, my balls drawn up tight.

I pull out and flip him over before the thought has fully formed in my mind. I manhandle him into position - kneeling almost upright with his hands braced on the bedstead. It takes a couple thrusts to reestablish a rhythm. Then I slide one hand beneath him, wrapping it around his rather generous erection. He whimpers encouragingly and pushes back against me, his body pliant and eager, his entire focus on the building orgasm. I tangle my other hand in his short hair and pull his head back roughly, making him yelp. 

"Come for me," I growl directly into his ear. 

He does immediately, as if he was waiting my permission, moaning and shuddering as he spills onto my hand.

I bury my face in his neck and let go, feeling the tension break so forcefully it is almost painful.

I manage to roll onto my back, away from him, before I collapse. 

After a minute or so of silence broken only by our collective efforts to regain our breath, he chuckles. 

"What," I prompt breathlessly.

"Now I have to shower again," he says, his voice muffled by the bedclothes.

"Mmm. Me too."

He laughs and turns over to face me. "That was brilliant."

"Stop it."

"No, honestly. You're usually so uncertain and hesitant when we do this. I hardly ever get to see this confident, wild side of you. It's thrilling."

I frown, eyeing the bruise beneath his eye. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, darling. Although sitting might be difficult for a while." He smirks.

Much as I hate to admit it - and would never do so verbally - it turns out I am not above male sexual pride. By the impish look in his eyes, I suspect he knows this already.

He leans in to kiss me. "Come on. You can admire your handiwork while we clean up," he says before heaving himself from the bed and heading back to the bath.


	15. Day 4, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features John and Lestrade, though not in person.

"When did you take up smoking?"

John takes the pipe from his mouth and exhales a stream of smoke. "Since the Queen went above board."

I recognize these words from my notes. "That doesn't make sense, John."

He shrugs. "Yes, well. It is your mind palace, my boy. What was the question?"

I sigh and repeat. "TS..."

"Ah! Right. Was that related to a case?"

"Perhaps..." I look down at the inscription on the ring again. Those initials are the easiest to read. Presumably, this would make them the most important. But why are they only initials? Is it because all the attempts at whole names are largely unreadable? There is an Am or an An, followed by a G and a couple scribbles that start with J. One of them looks at first glance like it could be "John", but upon closer inspection I can't be sure of the last two letters. The N could be an H and the H something else entirely.

"What case was that again?"

"Something about a missing woman, I think. Or was she murdered?"

It is unlike John to forget such an important detail of a case. But then, I remind myself, I am not really talking to John. I look into his face - a face I couldn't erase from my mind palace if I tried. "I miss you," I whisper.

He reaches out to fold my hand around my ring. "You have the answers already," he says softly. "You just have to remember."

A mobile buzzes, shaking me from my nineteenth century construction. I blink at the mobile perched on the coffee table beside my laptop. The screen is still lit, announcing a text from Lestrade. I asked him what he knew about "TS" before I entered my mind palace, already suspecting it had been related to an old case. I pick up the mobile and open the message, groaning at the unhelpful response. 

'What, as in Eliot?'

'No, as in my last case with John,' I fire back. 

There is a pause, then a response of 'I can't recall any TS being involved. How are you? Haven't heard from you since the wedding. How's married life treating you?'

I bite back another groan, even though the only other person who could hear it is holed up in his office. 'Fine. Don't suppose you have any cases for me?'

'No, nothing the yard can't solve. Hey, nice work on that ancient skull, by the way.'

'How did you know about that?'

'It was in the papers. Your neighbor identified the remains and the deceased's cause of death? Figured you must have had a hand in it.'

'I don't remember.'

Another pause, then "right. Sorry mate.'

I go to put the phone down, then hesitate. There is one other piece of the puzzle Lestrade might be able to assist me with. I glance at the closed study door before I resume typing. 'What do you know about my husband?'

'What do you mean?'

'I did some digging, but I couldn't find much about him.'

'What is there to know? What are you trying to find?'

I hesitate. Is this the paranoia I read about in Henry's description of the early days of my condition? 'I don't know. Something's off, but I'm not sure what, exactly.'

'Off? How?'

This isn't working. I sound ridiculous. 'I don't know. Let me know if you find anything.' I put the mobile down and stifle another groan. At least I sounded sober, which is more than I can say about the message I seem to have left Mycroft yesterday when I was ill. 

Wait...why was I ill?

I search though my journal entries again, but they don't offer any explanation beyond a possible side effect of the nootropic. I seem to have suffered more frequent bouts of illness in the weeks following my accident, but now it seems to correlate most predictably to the rare occasions when I make sudden improvements in my memory. Perhaps indicative of an adjustment in dosage or the need for one. 

Henry emerges from his study and disappears into the kitchen. I hear him fill the tea kettle and turn on the stove. He sticks his head around the corner a few moments later. 

"There you are. I'm just putting the kettle on. Would you like some tea?"

That actually does sound lovely. I start to stand. 

"No, don't get up. I'll bring it to you."

I settle back down and set about adding my latest visit to my mind palace to my notes. I add the bit about Lestrade being unhelpful where the initials on my ring are concerned, but omit the questions about Henry.

I close the laptop when Henrry arrives with two steaming mugs of tea.

"Anything new," he asks as he holds out one to me.

"No," I grumble.

"Have you tried your mind palace?"

"It turns out strategies to store memories aren't exactly effective when one is prone to losing their memories."

He gives me a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, darling. Is there anything I can do to help?"

I am tempted to ask him about TS, but some instinct tells me I shouldn't. Instead, I find myself asking "how did you get your scar?"

He looks puzzled, as if that was not what he expected me to say.

I gesture at his torso. "My notes say you told me, but there are no details." I sip at my tea tentatively. Earl Grey, I note, with a hint of something darker, richer.*

"Ah, well. That's probably because it was my own fault for turning my back on a delirious patient in a war torn country."

I cast about for a hint of memory of the conversation, but come up empty. "You were a medic?"

"Médecins sans Frontières," he says with flawless pronunciation. "That should be in your notes too. Normally we kept well away from the fighting, but we had to treat soldiers as well as civilians. This one was so lost in fever that he became convinced that I was an enemy spy sent to kill him instead of a doctor trying to save him."

Henry sips at his own tea while I try to fit this detail into the overall picture. There is an unmistakable ring of truth to it, but something is wrong somehow. Incomplete perhaps. Rehearsed.

"I suppose that incident taught me a lesson in dealing with patients with cognitive issues," he continues. "Working with you was far easier. You tried to strangle me and I took many blows but you never once took a weapon to me."

I look at his blackened eye again and wonder briefly if he is lying to cover up the fact that *I* stabbed him. No, the wound is too old. 

He smiles softly and reaches a hand to play with a lock of my hair. "You are getting better, Will. We're making real progress with your treatment."

Will. I even changed my name. No doubt in part so I could escape the fame my detective work brought. Or, more accurately, the fame that John's publicizing of our cases brought.

This brings me to another thought. "Did you treat John too? After the accident?"

"No, I never had a chance. His injuries were too severe. He never made it to hospital." His hand comes to rest on my neck. "You really loved him, didn't you?"

"Love...so my meaning ascribed to the word and yet it is entirely inadequate." I swirl the tea in my cup, watching it slosh gently. "I suppose I did. And I know he loved me too, though not necessarily in the way I might have once hoped. He was a constant. Someone I could trust with the most intimate knowledge."

Someone I would die for. Someone I would kill to protect.

"Rosie--"

"--is the reason you keep regular correspondence with Mrs. Watson. I think your brother may be keeping watch over them as well."

Of course he is. I suppose this is another reason for the distance. It is harder for him to meddle. "Did my brother offer you money to spy on me?"

Henry's hand falls from my neck as he sips his tea. "Not exactly," he says after a pause. 

I groan. "That's a yes."

"He offered me a job as your personal live-in physician. But by that time I was already falling in love with you and I couldn't take his money."

If he had, he could have quit his job. Or at least reduced his hours. But he was too proud. Too noble. In many ways, he reminds me of John.

Except...

I think of the hungry look in Henry's eyes as he knelt before me this morning. The desperate noises he made against my lips as I prepared him. I may have once desired that with John, but I told myself it was just as well he never felt likewise as it would have been a distraction. I was happy with our arrangement, once I grew accustomed to Mary's presence. I may have still had moments where I wondered what could have been, but those thoughts were easily dismissed as foolish. Yet here I was, less than a year after John's death. I don't even believe in marriage.

"I assume you proposed?"

He chuckles and sets his empty teacup on the coffee table. "Yes, well...it was quite a process. The first time I asked you lectured me about ridiculous traditions and absurd sentiments. I was more careful when I broached the subject after that, speaking in broader, theoretical terms. You never remembered the conversations, of course, but I think I wore you down subconsciously." He smiles wistfully and slides his palm along my thigh. "That night we made love and - although you've called me a sentimental idiot for saying this - I honestly felt you open to me in ways you never had before. Not just your body, but your heart and mind. You were still gasping for breath and trembling in my arms when I whispered the question in your ear. To my surprised delight, you said yes." He gives a small shrug. "Of course, within the hour, you were rationalizing your response as a combination of understanding the practical need for me to have spousal privileges given your medical condition combined with the endorphins released during orgasm, but I choose to believe that was just bluster coming from a man who refuses to admit that deep down he's really a romantic."

I snort and open my mouth to refute this nonsense, but he cuts me off by laying a finger on my lips. 

"I know you, my love," he murmurs. "I have had the unique privilege of seeing you on those rare occasions when you let the cold, logical airs you put on for the rest of the world slip. I have wiped away your tears when you grieved for John Watson. I have soothed your fears when you became so ill you were convinced you were dying. I know who you really are, Will. I know you are capable of loving so deeply that you are paralyzed by it. That you can't help but dread that one day the thing you love will be taken from you too soon. Like John. Like Victor. Like Redbeard."

For a horrible moment I feel as if I am being vivisected. Stripped bare before a man who was little more than a stranger to me hours ago. I am reminded of the deficiencies of my memory and wonder when I told him about my childhood pet being put down when he was barely middle aged because it was discovered he had cancer. Or about my best friend from Uni whose life was cut short at an even earlier age by a drug overdose.**

Is this why I ran away from London? From Rosie and Mary and Mrs. Hudson? I am not foolish enough to believe in curses or other superstitions, but it would be easy to blame myself for John's death. He knew my work was dangerous, certainly, but maybe this was my way of protecting his family and mine from suffering the same fate.

Henry takes the teacup from me and sets it on the table, gathering my hands in his. "I know you are too logical to believe in curses or any vows I make that I would move heaven and Earth to stay with you. I understand and have accepted the conditions of our relationship because I know at least a part of you loves me, even if it is only because I fill the void left by John Watson." He kisses me. A gentle, tentative brush of his lips against mine. "I love you," he murmurs. "More than anything in the world. More than my own life."

He releases my hands so he can cradle my face and kisses me again. Just as gentle, but less tentative. I relax and let him take control. I think I understand now why I said yes.

"Do you want more tea," he asks, nuzzling my cheek. 

"Ah...no, thanks."

"Mmm...well, I do." His hands fall from my face, one giving my thigh a quick squeeze before he gathers both cups and heads back to the kitchen. I hesitate a moment, looking at the closed laptop and thinking, before getting up to follow him.

"Does 'TS' mean anything to you," I ask, hovering in the doorway.

"No. Why?"

There is something odd about his answer, but I'm not sure what, exactly. "I don't know. It's probably nothing." My eyes land on the jar of honey I saw on the table his morning and I realize why John's words were so familiar. I pick up the jar so I can inspect the label. 

Queen. Above board. Of course. That's why I am spending so much time fretting over the hive.

"Something wrong, Will?"

I put the jar back down. "No, I just...thought I remembered something."

"Really? What did you remember?"

"Nothing. I was wrong."

He eyes me with more concern than suspicion, but says nothing.

I must be hiding something from him, but what? And now I realize what it was about his earlier answer that bothered me. He answered too quickly. As if it was a reflex.

"Maybe you should try your mind palace again," he suggests conversationally. 

"Maybe."

He smiles and kisses my cheek on his way out of the kitchen, disappearing back into his study.

************

Just as I suspected, there is a memory stick hidden beneath the lid of the hive, above the crown board. Clever, but can I remove it and return it without arousing Henry's suspicion? I have no doubt that the information on it is important, but it is obvious I am keeping it hidden from him in the one place I know is mine alone. Is the need to know what is on the drive worth the risk after I have gone to such bother to ensure its safety?

I slide the stick in my pocket and close the hive. I won't know anything certain until I know what is on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I seem determined to reference interviews with the actors when it comes to food and drink. This is the tea Benedict once described his father making.
> 
> **As far as I'm concerned, 99.9% of season 4 never happened. Redbeard is a dog and Sherlock's friend from university is still his friend from university and was never a victim of a sister who, as far as I'm concerned, never existed.


	16. Day 4, Part 3

The fact that the drive is password protected with John's never-uttered middle name reinforces my belief that it is mine alone. The contents remove any further doubt. Although there is nothing particularly alarming about the events in this alternate journal, the fact that they differ from the ones I read this morning is unsettling. 

I read quickly, mindful of the time. The last entry is from yesterday afternoon and isn't entirely coherent. I copy the rest of my notes from yesterday onto the drive - although I can't be sure of their accuracy if Henry has access to them - along with what little I have as yet today. I note the fact that I cannot do more with Henry in the next room, but now that I have read my theories about the true nature of the alleged nootropic medicine I am taking I hope to prove my suspicions that it is causing my memory loss and not treating it.

Of course there is a chance the tablet I took this morning will be enough to affect my memory, but I am betting the effects will be minimal. There must be a reason Henry prescribed two tablets per day.

I return the stick to the hive quickly, feeling like a little boy again hiding dirty magazines or, later, drugs from my parents. The twin rushes of adrenaline at the danger of being caught and disappointment that it proved to be so *easy*.

I settle back at the laptop and enter a few hive observations to justify the two trips he doubtless heard me make. 

Then I go into my mind palace to confront the one person who knows exactly what has really been going on these past months.

Henry sits in the chair John and I set out for clients. Except his posture is more relaxed than the chair's usual occupants, as if he is perfectly at home in 221b. He even appears to be wearing one of my dressing gowns and nothing else.

"There are far too many variables here and I can't be certain which ones are true and which are false. I know you are lying to me, but I don't know why or to what extent." I run my fingers gingerly over the scar on my scalp. "I *was* in an accident. I remember enough details to be sure of that. But did it cause my current condition? This rare form of amnesia seems too bizarre and unlikely to be real, but the alternative is even more absurd. It would imply that you concocted an elaborate scheme to abduct me and convince me that I have a rare condition requiring experimental treatment in order to trick me into continually dosing myself with the drug that causes the amnesia-like symptoms."

"Diabolical," he agrees with a smirk.

"But if it's real, why bother lying and deceiving me at all?"

"When have I lied? Has anything in your journal actually contradicted me or is it all just supposition?" He stands and moves closer to me. Close enough that the mere two inches of height advantage he has on me feels intimidating. "Has it occurred to you that your paranoia is merely your mind rejecting the simplest of answers precisely because it is *too* simple? That you have been on a steady diet of difficult cases for so long that the sudden lack of them is driving you to such bored madness that you have begun inventing elaborate plots where there are none?"

The dressing gown falls open and my eyes fix on his scar. I reach to trace it with a forefinger. "How did you get this?"

I asked the question rhetorically, of course, but he answers by mirroring my movements, pressing his hand over the concealed scar Mary gave me. "How did you get yours?"

I think about the collection of scars on my body, including the new one on my scalp and a wild thought occurs to me. What if the lies are masking his guilt over my condition? Treatment aside, what if he caused the accident?

"The angle is wrong," he says, answering my thoughts with the ease of someone quite literally in my head. "I wasn't in a car when it happened. And the wound was obviously made deliberately by a blade and healed long before your accident."

"That doesn't mean you couldn't have been on the scene," I argue.

"No," he admits, his smile fond and infuriatingly serene. "But a doctor doesn't always have to be part of the cause of a condition to feel guilt for their inability to cure it." His hand, still pressed low against my chest, circles to the small of my back, tugging me closer with very little effort, pressing my clothed body against his mostly naked one. "Is life with me really so intolerable that you must believe it to be founded on lies?"

This, combined with the memory of Mary's deception, prompts a deduction on the problem I have been puzzling over all morning. "*You* are TS, aren't you?"

His lips twitch faintly, but otherwise there is no change in his expression. Not that such a thing would mean anything here. "Why did you change your name? Are you hiding from someone? From the person who gave you that scar?" I correct myself immediately. "No, the scar is too old for that to be likely."

He brushes his lips against my clavicle. Not exactly a kiss.

"What is it? Timothy? Thomas? Tobias? You look like you could be a Toby*."

He chuckles softly. "Why does my name matter so much?"

"Because I suspect it is connected to the case I was working with John, but I can't remember the details."

"You think I could be a killer?"

"Yes," I say with an ease that surprises even me. He cocks an eyebrow at me and I run through the deduction out loud. "Yes, I think you are capable. If I believe your story about how you acquired that scar it means you were blindsided by a violent man intent on killing you and impervious to reason and yet you got away with a single wound. You remind me of both John and Mary - people who once killed for a living and are more than capable of doing it again to protect those they love."

"Hmm...but who have I killed to protect whom?"

My head is beginning to ache. 

"Maybe I wasn't protecting anyone," he continues. "Maybe I discovered I *liked* killing people. Maybe I tried to kill you but something changed and I decided that having you by my side - under my control - was far more intoxicating. Maybe I killed John instead because he tried to stop me from taking you."

It almost makes sense, and yet it seems entirely absurd. Henry - or TS - may be capable of violence, but he is not a killer. And I don't think he would ever have intended to kill *me*.

"Your love is incompatible with any desire to do me harm."

"If the love was pure, perhaps, but what if it's obsession? I wouldn't kill you if I had to *have* you. Perhaps that explains why you sometimes confuse me with Moriarty." He leans close and whispers "you are mine," in my ear. 

"You don't scare me."

He chuckles and runs his fingers delicately around to the front of my trousers. "I could have you right here until you begged for mercy."

The familiar phrase calls to mind a familiar response. "I don't beg."

He smiles knowingly. "Yes, you do."

I sigh, shake my head and pull away from him, emerging from my mind palace with no more information than I had before. I always knew there were limits to what my mind palace could do, but being confronted so blatantly by those limitations is maddening.

But there is something bothering me about the accident, isn't there?

I pore over the details I have again - a brief accident report and John's coroner's report. Neither offer many details - though it is curious that the medical report corroborates Henry's story that he bled out in the ambulance. Why, then, did I write in my journal that the body I saw in my mind palace was burned beyond recognition?

I try to dig a little deeper. The signature of the doctor who registered the certificate is illegible, but the coroner's is clear. Unfortunately, her name is so common that a simple search of it yields results for characters in a popular American television program and a series of crime novels as well as an actress known for her roles in pornographic films (though clearly this last one does not bear the title "doctor"). **

I keep digging, but there are too many false results to sift through and my growing headache makes concentration difficult.

I rummage around in the loo until I find a bottle of paracetamol and swallow the pills dry. Henry appears in the door as I'm putting the bottle away - no doubt drawn by the noise of my search.

"Headache?"

I grunt in response. Obviously. I resist the urge to flinch as he comes closer and reaches for me. He cradles my face gently, tipping my head up and peering into my eyes. 

"Any nausea?"

I shake my head and he tightens his grip, stilling the movement. 

"Just say yes or no, love." He lets go with one hand so he can hold up his finger for me to track. "Follow my finger. Any dizziness?"

"No."

"Feeling faint?"

I catch his hand, stopping him. "I'm fine, Doctor."

He smiles and leans in to kiss my fingers. "You should take a break from that computer screen. I can make some tea if you like."

"Don't think the added caffeine will help."

"I'm pretty sure we still have some herbal."

I consider refusing, but tea does sound nice. And perhaps I can ask a few questions and get him to talk some more. Perhaps I can trick him into giving me the answers my imagined version of him can't.

*********

He massages my shoulders while we wait for the kettle to boil. I groan and slump in the kitchen chair as my muscles loosen.

"You really shouldn't spend so much time at that computer."

I hum vaguely.

The kettle whistles and he kisses the back of my neck before going to fetch it. I watch him pour water over a bag in a single cup. He isn't having any this time. Perhaps because he had a second cup earlier.

"Did you know the doctor who signed John's coroner report?"

He hesitates, blinks, as if surprised by the question. "Erm...no, I don't think so."

This answer is more genuine and less rehearsed than the one he gave about TS. Though that doesn't necessarily mean it is true. "What about the coroner? Did you know her?"

"It was a big hospital, darling. I hardly knew anyone outside of A&E." He brings the cup to me. "I did know the medic who brought him in though. He recognized you and asked after you a few days after the accident."

I swish the tea in the cup, watching the water turn darker. "Was he cremated?" 

Henry eases back in his chair. "Is this about you seeing your coroner friend working on him?"

"I told you about that?"

He nods. "You concluded yourself that you deliberately chose to see him that way because you couldn't bear to think of him laid out on a slab the way you remembered him."

He is choosing his words carefully, as if he fears upsetting me.

"What happened to the man who gave you that scar," I ask, sipping my tea.

"Erm..." he stutters, seemingly thrown by the shift in my line of questioning. "He died."

'Did you kill him,' I wonder, but I don't ask. I'm almost certain he did. How else would he be so certain of the fate of one soldier? At the very least, the man must have died while in his care.

"Let's not talk of death anymore tonight," he declares. He pulls his mobile from his pocket. "Tomorrow is Valentine's Day." 

I groan.

"I know. It's a ridiculous commercial holiday, the only purpose of which is to sell cards and chocolates. But it's our fist together and I want to get you something." He taps purposefully on his phone screen. "And after our conversation earlier, I think I may have found the perfect gift."

He hands the mobile to me and I stare at the picture of a beautiful tri-colored Cavalier spaniel. 

"She was surrendered to the human society yesterday. Her name is Bella, but she's barely a year old, so you can change that."

"Why?"

"Well, you could keep the name if you don't mind the fact that she's obviously named after a character from a teenage love story about vampires."

What? "No, why do you want to buy me a dog?"

"Because I want to make you happy. Because I want to give you something you can love. Because I love you."

My mind races with alternative explanations. Because he needs leverage or insurance. Because taking care of a dog would keep me distracted. Because he is very literally trying to buy my love.

I look at the large, soulful eyes on the mobile screen. Why do they always look so pitiful in these pictures?

"I called and told them we were interested in looking at her, but if you don't want..."

"Grainne Ní Mháille."

"Sorry?"

"Before Redbeard died, I tried to convince my parents that he should have a mate. I had male and female names already prepared. If it was a girl, I would name her after the most famous, fearsome woman pirate of Ireland. Grace O'Malley." I look up at Henry. "We never got another dog."

A slow smile spreads across his face as he realizes what I am saying. "Gracie. It's lovely." He kisses me. "Shall we go meet her?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Toby is the first character listed in Tom Hiddleston's filmography. 
> 
> **The death certificate referenced in this chapter is the mockup made for me by Megabat. I have incorporated her winking nod to a character from Silent Witness into the story, adding my own discoveries about the name from a Google search. You can find Megabat's mockup here: https://diandrahollman.neocities.org/stories/djs/Johns%20Death%20Cert.jpg
> 
> A word about Grace. When I mapped out the general outline of this story back at the beginning of this year, I tried to think of a name Sherlock would give a dog. I tried to get input from the person who runs the ContactSH account on Twitter (as they seem to understand how Sherlock thinks). For reasons I am still not clear on, this resulted in nothing but abuse from ContactSH's followers, which ContactSH happily encouraged. Ultimately, Grace was named during a brainstorming session I had with Emilio Taylor, whose continued support and kindness through this entire experience has been invaluable.


	17. Day 4, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have learned two things since I posted the last chapter. The first is that Tom once had a cat named Grace. The second is that this exists: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/98/93/9d/98939d454825fa778efafb0ca98a763e.jpg I will take both of these things as a sign that I am doing something right here.

I don't know why I agreed to adopt a dog any more than I know why I agreed to marry Henry. Or maybe I do. Dogs are so much simpler than people - their needs more basic, their motives pure. I do not know yet to what extent Henry is lying to me. Part of me probably craves the simplicity the company of a dog offers. And honestly, part of me probably just couldn't say no. It has been so long since Redbeard died.

Grace, née Bella, takes to me easily, hoping into my arms and excitedly licking my face. She takes to Henry just as easily, but it is clear she favors me.

We stop at a pet shop, buy a temporary ID collar and enough supplies for at least two dogs her size and spend the evening acclimating her to her new environment. She is housebroken, but without a fence I will need to use her leash just to let her wee in the garden. She is able to jump on furniture, but Henry and I both agree that the bed should stay strictly off limits. She is playful, but grows bored of her toys quickly.

"She's already taking after you," Henry notes with a laugh when she turns her nose up at a ball she was chasing not five minutes before.

I still don't know what Henry's motives are for buying Grace for me, exactly, but his delight at seeing the two of us together seems genuine.

I add a page to my folder about Grace and clip a picture of her begging for food while Henry cooks dinner into my journal. This inspires me and I locate a printer in my office. I print two pictures: one of Grace peering excitedly through the window from the backseat of Henry's car and one of Henry lying in bed, engrossed in a novel. I write their names beneath each picture and leave them where they will be most visible to me each morning - the small table on my side of the bed. Not that I anticipate needing this tomorrow as I successfully avoided my evening dose of "medicine", being sure to store it in a safe place in my study out of Grace's reach.

I finish my journal - the one Henry has possibly redacted - while having one last cup of tea for the evening. Chamomile. Henry joins me this time, curled at the other end of the sofa with the same book he has in the picture. Grace lies between us, lifting her head curiously whenever either of us moves, but otherwise contentedly napping. I contemplate both of them. I cannot theorize about Henry's possible ulterior motives in this journal directly, but maybe if I take it from another perspective...

"Do you ever think about having children?"

He looks surprised by the question, but his momentary glance at Grace before he answers is telling. "Not really. Why?"

"You seem the sort of person who would want a family. I don't see anything in my notes to suggest we ever discussed it."

"We haven't." There is a note of wariness in his voice. "Where is this coming from?"

"I just thought maybe you were using this as a sort of experiment. See if I can handle caring for a species with simpler needs first."

"No," he answers quickly, firmly. He puts his book down and reaches for my hand. "Put this in your journal because I don't ever want you to question it again: all I need, all I want to make my life complete is you. I have no plans to bring a child into our home and I certainly am not using Gracie to test you. Her sole function is to make you happy."

'So that I will be compelled to stay with you,' I think. "That implies that you believe I was unhappy before," I say.

His grip on my hand tightens, making me acutely aware of the wedding ring pressing into my flesh and probably his. Something dark passes over his face for a moment. Anger, fear and insecurity mar his features. "I think there is a certain degree of melancholy that is to be expected of someone with a condition such as yours," he says carefully. "And I think Gracie is better suited to helping you deal with it than I am."

I remember the notes on the memory stick. I vowed to escape Henry and my life here on two separate occasions. I made plans. As far as I know I at least attempted to follow through on them, but somehow I always wound up back in this house and never with any evidence that he had forced me to come back in any way. Something or someone (likely him) had changed my mind and I had chosen to return of my own free will.

Grace suddenly notices our linked hands above her and licks my wrist before crawling into my lap. I free my hand from Henry's grip so I can scratch behind her ears. 

Henry's hand slides beneath my chin, gently coaxing my head up. My eyes meet his and he murmurs. "It's so nice to see you smile."

I didn't realize I was smiling. My mouth falls slack in surprise. Henry leans in to kiss me, a slow, gentle kiss that disrupts my breathing just enough to leave me panting when he lets up.

Grace jumps from my lap, obviously having grown tired of my distracted petting, and wanders into the kitchen.

Henry takes the opportunity to move closer, deepening the kiss. his tongue brushes alongside mine confidently - reclaiming territory he has already thoroughly explored. 

It is easy to give in to his advances. My body practically does it on instinct. My muscles slacken and I allow him to take control, to press me into the back sofa cushions. I feel his hand on the inside of my thigh - a courtesy warning - before he cups me through my trousers, rubbing with the barest of pressure. I let my legs open wider, granting him access.

"That's it, darling," he purrs, trailing kisses along my jaw, over my cheeks. His hot breath warms my ear before he nips playfully at the lobe and licks the sensitive skin beneath. 

"Have..." I clear my throat and try to force my voice into a lower, less embarrassingly breathy register. "Have we done this before? Had sex on this sofa?"

"Mmm...is that what you want?"

I miscalculated. His hand is still between my legs, but his touch is still light, almost teasing. His kisses are leisurely. His breathing and pulse are only slightly accelerated. He did not begin this foreplay with the presupposition that it would lead to intercourse. He is content with the foreplay alone. 

He brushes his fingers lightly over the zip on my trousers. "Do you want to come?"

"No...I...don't know." I wince. I never did like saying those words.

He chuckles softly. "Well..." He brushes his lips over my suprasternal notch; as low as he can reach without abandoning his teasing below my waist to undo a button. "Perhaps we should continue this in the bedroom and see where it takes us."

A tentative "woof" emanates from the floor. Henry blinks, looks down and laughs again. "After you get Gracie settled for the night."

******************

By the time I finish letting Grace out in the garden, my clarity of thought has returned. I write a summary of our conversation in my notes.

'I believe Henry is worried about the strain my condition could be putting on me both mentally and emotionally,' I write. 'He is trying to find ways to make me happy, to make my life here more bearable.'

Constructing a life he hopes I will be reluctant to simply abandon. I wonder if - had either of us been female - he would have gone the route of trying to bring a child into our home by flushing birth control pills or putting pinpricks in prophylactics*. Or would he have drawn the line at orchestrating a pregnancy? Would such a scenario even work?

I shake my head and chastise myself for absurd speculations. If he thought a child would be more effective leverage he could have adopted one or used a surrogate. More likely, he is trying to prove his love for me. And this is a far more effective way to try to buy my loyalty, isn't it? 

I think of how effortlessly he seems able to bend me to his will. I may not trust the things he tells me about his past or my present are true, but I have no trouble believing his declarations of love and devotion. His determined focus on pleasing me in every way seems to have awakened long-neglected desires in me. Not sexual, or at least not JUST sexual. It wasn't simple arousal I felt when he was kissing me and touching me intimately. It was a pleasure as simple as I'd felt when he massaged my shoulders at the kitchen table. Pleasant. Comfortable. Soothing. 

Like a narcotic.

I wonder if I've fallen back on my old habits in recent months; taken anything other than the drug Henry gives me. It occurs to me that this could just as easily be how he buys my loyalty. That I always come back to him willingly in search of my next hit. But I am very familiar with what addiction feels like. I stashed away the evening pill without a second thought. I have no symptoms to alleviate, no craving for a hit. In fact, I feel no different at all for having not taken the dose.

Perhaps my imagined version of Henry is right. Perhaps I am simply bored and imagining complicated plots because I am unable to accept something as dull as amnesia could be the answer.

I reassure myself - as I return the laptop to the kitchen counter to charge overnight - with the knowledge that I should know the answer to that in the morning. I did not take the pill. If my memory is intact, I can be reasonably certain that it is causing my symptoms and not treating them. If, however, I regress to the same state I found myself in this morning...then none of this speculation will matter. I will forget everything. I may not even find the data stick in the hive.

I make sure Grace is settled on her covered foam bed and her water bowl is full before I climb the stairs to the bedroom. 

I glance at Henry, who has resumed his reading laid out in bed, naked but for the bedding pulled up to his waist, before going into the bath.

The sight of him reading - barely halfway through his book - prompts a train of thought that continues as I brush my teeth, empty my bladder and wash up. Like any normal person without a condition that affects his memory, Henry is able to read his book over the course of several days or even weeks, confident that he can simply return to the place he last stopped and continue reading. He will remember what he has read before. He remembers all the details of the past few months of my life that have been deleted. The memories I have recorded in my journal as well as the ones I haven't. If he has been altering my journal - and the small differences between it and the one on the memory stick prove that someone has been - then he remembers what really happened and why the memories were deleted.

Someone has been.

I have to consider the possibility that I am the one making the changes myself for reasons I have forgotten, either by choice or by accident. The note in the folder I read every morning is in my handwriting. It is not a forgery. Regardless of all the evidence that something is suspect here, I am - to some degree at least - a willing participant in my own deception.

I strip off my clothes, folding the trousers and shirt and tossing the rest in the laundry basket automatically. I pause briefly to note that I knew where everything is meant to go. I may not remember all the details of the past few months, but I haven't forgotten everything completely either. It is as if certain data is corrupted or hidden from me. It is simultaneously frustrating and fascinating. 

And the fact that I'm fascinated by it might very well explain my willingness to allow this to go on as long as it has.

Henry is waiting when I emerge from the loo, his book tucked away on the table beside the bed. One hand is beneath his head. The other rests on his abdomen, fingers just brushing the edge of the sheet. He smiles and stretches the nearest hand out toward me in invitation.

I climb beneath the covers and allow him to pull me into his arms. 

"What's wrong, darling," he asks softly, his fingers running delicately along my temple. "Do you still have a headache?"

"No." I really don't, I realize. 

He kisses me softly, slowly, as if he is trying to kiss away whatever fear or sadness he sees in my eyes. I am afraid and I am depressed, but I doubt it is for exactly the reasons he suspects. 

I reach to trace the lines of his face. His jaw. His cheek. His nose. As if I can commit him to memory through touch. He holds still, indulging me. He catches my hand as I am tracing over his lips and kisses the pads of my fingers.

"I want to remember you," I say softly, almost pleadingly.

A sad, sympathetic look flickers in his eyes for a moment. As if he knows I won't. But of course he does, I remind myself. He thinks I took the pill.

'Why do you want me to forget you?'

He pulls me tighter against him. "You will."

He seems to genuinely believe this. Or desire it. Which would make giving me a drug to cause amnesia-like symptoms counter-productive. Unless the drug-induced amnesia wasn't his idea in the first place. Could I be doing this to myself?

I am so lost in thought that I barely notice he has resumed what he began back on the couch. His leg has slipped between my thighs. His hand presses the small of my back, coaxing me closer. He kisses me slowly, leisurely.

Have we done this before, I wonder? Is this what we did that night in Paris? All the passion and desire of foreplay without the need for intercourse?

He pushes me gently onto my back and kisses slowly, wetly down my body, tracing my pectoral muscles with his fingers, his tongue dipping into my navel. He isn't exploring. It is obvious he has done this before and is demonstrating his intimate knowledge of me. He is playing my body like a well-tuned violin. Encouraging the pleasurable feelings without tipping me over the edge into arousal. Still waiting for permission to go further.

It is soothing. Perhaps too soothing, I think as I feel my eyelids growing heavy and my body relaxing into the mattress.

I am startled by a chuckle beside my ear. "Am I boring you?"

I struggle to open my eyes and realize I must have drifted momentarily to sleep. "'m sorry," I mumble, reaching for him clumsily. "Go on..."

He cradles my cheek in one warm palm. "You're really tired, aren't you, love?"

I sigh. I really am. And it's annoying because I had been right on the verge of an important thought. At least I'm pretty sure I was, but now I don't recall what I was thinking about.

Henry pulls my unresisting body back into his arms, curling himself around me, one hand splayed low over my abdomen, pressing me into him, grounding me. "Sleep, my love," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.

"Love," I mumble sleepily before giving into the encroaching darkness.

**************

I am running, but I can't remember why. It is too dark to see where I am going even if I did know where I am in the first place. Something is chasing me and even though I am not sure what it is, exactly, I am terrified it will catch me.

I turn a couple corners blindly, cursing the way this slows me down, wondering if I'm just going where my pursuer wants me to go.

Something wraps around my wrist and I am forced to an abrupt stop. 

I yell the first word that always comes to my mind when I am in imminent danger. "John!"

Suddenly there are arms around me and I flail as I realize I am no longer upright.

"Shhh," a voice whispers. "It's all right. It was just a dream. You're safe."

I cling to the owner of the voice instinctively, fighting to get my bearings.

"Shh," he repeats, a hand rubbing my back. "It's all right, love."

Love. I force myself to wake up more completely so I can better deduce my current situation. I am naked and so is the man holding me. He is familiar and we are obviously intimate, but his name escapes me.

Where am I?

The man pulls back so he can see my face - as clearly as such a thing is even possible in the dim early-morning light. "Do you know who I am?"

I'm sure the proper etiquette when one finds oneself in a position such as this is to lie. Pretend to remember picking him up in a pub and going back to his flat for sex. But I don't think I met this man in a pub. I shake my head.

I feel his chest move, as if he is exhaling a long-held breath. "I'm your husband, darling," he says softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Fuck Ian Sommerhalder. Just...no.


	18. Day 5, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas. Here's some Valentine's Day porn. :) 
> 
> With domestic fluff and a touch of angst.

I sit at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of somewhat weak, but still sufficiently soothing herbal tea, staring at the blinking cursor on the laptop screen. 

After getting me a glass of water and failing to convince me to come back to bed, Henry gave me a folder containing notes with basic information, articles he wrote for a medical journal detailing my unique condition, and John's obituary and coroner's report. I reacted badly to these last items, stubbornly denying that they could be real. John couldn't be dead. I'm not sure if that was guilt or simple denial of a painful truth. 

Guilt...it was an accident, a car crash. But were we following a lead on a case at the time? Did his life as my blogger - his thirst for excitement and danger - ultimately lead to his demise?

Grace grows bored of my distracted petting and pads from the kitchen, settling in her bed by the sofa with a rather dramatic sigh.

I have lost track of time. The sun is coming up. Henry will probably be awake again soon.

I close the laptop without adding anything to the journal I found on the desktop. I don't have anything to add at the moment.

I return to the bedroom and climb beneath the covers gingerly, still wrapped in my dressing gown. He shifts slightly, but doesn't wake. 

I study him in the morning light while I gather my thoughts. It's not that I have no memories at all of recent months, I realize, but that the few memories I have are brief, devoid of context and - according to the suspicions I voiced in my journal - not always reliable. The human mind isn't perfect when it comes to recording memory. Even my own. Data can become corrupted. Dreams can become confused for reality and people can convince themselves of events that never happened. I always thought I was better than that, but it seems my superior intellect has been damaged by events beyond my control.

My memories of the past eight months are there, I'm sure. But I cannot access some of them and others have been corrupted. Like a hard drive infected with a virus.

Or like a degenerative disease I have always feared I would develop. I can live with the damage my drug use has done to my body. But a disease that destroys my mind...unravels the very essence of who I am until there is nothing left but transport...

No. According to my journal and the articles Henry has written, I am showing signs of improvement. My memories from before the accident are untouched. I don't need to reverse the forward march of a disease that is robbing me of my ability to think. I just need to repair the damage that is impeding my ability to properly store and retrieve data.

Henry sighs softly and rolls toward me. I let my eyes trace over his features. Some part of my mind recognized him this morning without knowing why. I didn't know his name and my instincts tell me he is a liar, but I know I can trust him with my life. I am uncertain he could say likewise. 

The two-day-old bruise beneath his eye is dark and impossible to miss. I hit him when I was delirious with illness, mistaking him for Moriarty.

I have a sudden flash of memory. Of shoving him into a wall, pinning him with my body, yanking his head back with a fistful of his short hair. Making him hiss with startled pain. I don't know if this is a memory or if it is connected to his current state in any way, which is distressing.

If I were to make a sudden movement toward him, would he instinctively cringe away from me? Would I want to test such a theory?

His breathing changes and his forehead wrinkles slightly. He is waking up. I wait for his eyes to open and give him what I hope is a reassuring smile.

He blinks sleepily and a smile spreads across his face. "Morning," he whispers. "Feeling better?"

"Yes."

He hums and reaches for me, making a displeased noise when he finds my hip. "You're overdressed."

"I am only wearing a dressing gown."

"Mmm...yes, exactly." He tugs the sash loose and snakes a hand through the opening, reaching around to cup my arse in a blatantly possessive gesture. "My plans for the day only require you to wear clothing if you must leave this bed for any reason."

'You are mine,' he growls in my fragmented memory.

My earlier memory of him changes. I am pushing him onto the bed, pulling his head back by a handful of his hair as he shouts in pleasure. Is that from yesterday or is it older?

"I would have thought your plans for Valentine's Day would involve more than simply spending the entire day having sex." My breathing hitches as he tugs the lower half of my body flush with his.

He chuckles. "Well, I do have a nice dinner planned for tonight, but seeing as it's Sunday I really was hoping to spend most of the day making love to you." He stresses the words "making love" pointedly, as if he is correcting my crude choice in vocabulary.

He kisses me lazily. He has morning breath, but I'm sure I do as well. It isn't all that unpleasant. I yield to it.

"Mmm...already had tea, I see," he murmurs against my lips. 

"Er...yes. I found a herbal in the cupboard."

He stops kissing and leans back, looking me in the eye. "Are you all right? You usually only drink that if you're not feeling well."

"It was either that or chamomile as far as I could tell."

He grunts. "Don't suppose you had anything to eat as well?"

"No."

"Hmm." He gives me one last kiss, squeezes his handful of my arse and then pulls away. "Come on. I'll make you breakfast. And don't tell me you're not hungry," he says as he pulls on his dressing gown. He looks at me pointedly as he ties the sash. "I won't have you fainting on me from low blood sugar."

***********

He takes a bloody age with the foreplay, exploring every inch of me with his fingers, lips and tongue as if he has never done it before. He stretches me open gently, thoroughly, as if I were a virgin. Initially, I was grateful for it as he is rather generously endowed, but now I am growing impatient.

"As lovely as this preamble has been, I do wish you would get on with it, dear."

He grins at me and rolls his hips, driving deeper inside me at an angle that brings him in close enough contact with my prostate to send a burst of pleasure up my spine. An undignified squeak escapes my mouth without my permission.

He chuckles. "Sorry, darling, I didn't realize I was boring you."

I groan as he resumes his leisurely thrusts.

"Shh, patience, love," he murmurs, nuzzling my ear. "Just relax. Don't think."

I snort. "Has that ever worked before?"

He kisses wetly along the curve of my jaw and murmurs "yes" against my lips. 

His upper body pulls away suddenly and he braces himself above me. With no further warning, he thrusts so powerfully that I yelp, flailing to grip the bedhead. It's all I can do to hang on as he continues moving at a relentless pace.

And then, just as suddenly as he began, he stops, returning to his slow, gentle thrusts.

"That's it," he murmurs, breathless. 

It takes me a dazed moment to realize what he means. My body has gone pliant, eagerly accepting him. "Oh. That's...oh..."

He chuckles and kisses me, deep and insistent, his tongue tangling with mine. 

I let go of the bedhead and run my hands over his back and arse, feeling the muscles move beneath his skin as he thrusts. 

He pulls his head back, licking at my lips almost tentatively, teasing. Then he braces himself again, the only warning I get before he switches to brutal fucking again.

I grab for the bedhead again, but my coordination is off. I hiss as I bruise my knuckles in the effort and wind up gripping the edge of the mattress instead. My cock is so swollen it is almost painful, the foreskin pulled back entirely to expose the slick, sensitive head. I want to touch it, but I'm afraid it would be too much. I am overwhelmed.

He slows again and I groan in frustration, the sound muffled as he kisses me, alternating between deep, hungry kisses and shallow, teasing licks and nips. 

He's kissing me the same way he's fucking me, I realize. And it's driving me to the edge of madness. I twist my fingers in his hair and force him to stop pulling back, taking control. He groans into my mouth, his hips losing rhythm.

For a while we fall into a sort of duel. My tongue invading his mouth as ruthlessly as his cock does my body. Both of us trying to force the other past the point of no return first. Then he shifts his weight, pulls my left hand from his hair and licks a hot stripe across my palm before bringing it between our writhing bodies, wrapping it around my swollen cock.

A helpless noise escapes me. "I can't...too much..." I am burning up. My heart is pounding.

"It's all right," he pants against my lips, his voice sounding just as undone as I feel. "I've got you."

My other hand falls from his head as he sits back on his heels, dragging my lower body along with a firm grip on my hips. The nearly forgotten pillow beneath me wedges between his knees and my bowed back. 

I cry out, the sound raw and primitive, as he redoubles his thrusts. 'I'm going to come,' I think wildly, tugging desperately at my cock, the fingers of my free hand digging into the mattress as if that will keep me anchored. I am so close. I can feel the beginnings of orgasm curling in my abdomen, my balls drawing up tight. Everything else falls away until there is just this, here, now. 

And then a sound outside the closed door pierces my concentration. My mind goes on high alert, my attention turning toward the intrusion, trying to identify its source.

"Wait," I gasp. 

Henry doesn't react, continuing to thrust with a single minded purpose. He didn't hear it.

I open my mouth, intent on trying to get his attention again, but he suddenly stops moving, his face going slack. A sound somewhere between a groan and a shout rumbles from deep in his chest. I hold still as he continues to thrust instinctively, clumsily, lost in pleasure.

And then I hear it again. A "woof", followed by a plaintive whine. Grace is right outside the closed bedroom door. 

I wait until Henry goes still, his body relaxing, and roll him off me, wincing as his softening cock slides wetly from my body and scrambling awkwardly from the bed.

I stagger about, my legs refusing to work properly, as I fetch my dressing gown and slippers. I am painfully hard.

Grace woofs happily as I open the bedroom door and runs in excited circles while I grab my coat and her leash. 

It feels illicit to be standing in the front garden freshly fucked, my body slick with various fluids beneath scant coverings. But the February chill helps cool my overheated skin. I calm as my arousal wanes.

"Your timing is impeccable," I mutter.

Grace ignores me, sniffing at a patch of grass near a shrub that is close enough to the road to be a tempting target for passing neighborhood dogs. She squats over it, then moves to inspect the base of a small tree.

I sigh and scan the houses along the street, idly wondering how many other couples are in flagrante delicto at the moment. 

When Grace is finished, I bring her back inside, hang my coat and put away her leash. She bounds for the kitchen, where Henry is waiting, wrapped in his own dressing gown. He bends to pat her head, then folds a glass of water into my hand. I drink it in one go - being actually quite thirsty after my recent exertions - and hand the empty glass back.

"More," he asks.

I shake my head.

He sets the glass on the counter and reaches for me. I slip into his embrace easily, comfortably. 

"You're freezing," he notes.

I bury my face in his neck, feeling his still somewhat sweaty skin warm my nose. 

He holds me for a while in contented silence, broken only by Grace's soft snorts as she forages beneath cabinets for forgotten crumbs like a pig seeking truffles. "I think she's hungry," he finally says.

"She's already had breakfast. We can't overfeed her."

Henry hums and I recall the picture by the bed of her watching him cook. I wonder if he will be the pushover who feeds her table scraps whenever she begs. I suspect he will.

"Come on," he says suddenly, unwinding his arms from around me and taking my hands. "Let's warm you up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it was coitus interruptus.


	19. Day 5, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I kind of left Sherlock/Will hanging in the last chapter. :) 
> 
> This chapter, like the last one, is VERY NC-17. Mind the tags because it has all the porn.

My hands curl into fists against the wall of the shower and I moan, pushing my hips back wantonly. I had suspected this was his intention when he was so thorough about his cleaning of our previous encounter from me, but I didn't anticipate he would do it right here in the bath. 

I can't hear him humming over the spraying water, but I can feel the vibrations. My hips twitch in his hold and I struggle to catch my breath as his tongue snakes inside me again. I wonder if I can come from this alone. According to my notes it has happened at least once. Recently.

The water is both too hot and too cold. I fumble for the controls and manage to shut it off. I groan as the sounds the water was covering become clear; the lewd, wet noises bouncing off the tile walls. We are both panting and making small, desperate noises. He is humming and grunting softly. I think I might be whimpering, but I can't seem to stop.

I look down and see my swollen erection bob between my shaking legs, the exposed tip glistening with beads of fluid that drip slowly to the floor. Further back I can see Henry's cock hanging between his spread thighs, just as swollen, having recovered from our earlier activities.

Thinking about how that cock felt inside me less than an hour ago makes me squirm involuntarily, the muscles around his tongue clenching. Henry groans and releases my hips, reaching his right hand between my legs to wrap around my cock and his left down to wrap around his.

"Oh, fuck..." I claw at the tiles blindly for a moment, then give in with a loud moan, thrusting into his fist in small, jerking motions.

The buzzing in my head is broken by a bark.

"Nononononono..." I am so close. I pound my fist on the tile and make a noise somewhere between a pained yelp and a guttural growl.

Grace barks again and this time there is an accompanying sound of nails scratching wood.

Henry can hear her this time. He lets go and stands up. I nearly collapse to the base of the tub. 

"I've got it," he grumbles. "Go lie down."

I stay in the shower, wet and shivering, for a long while after he leaves, afraid my legs are shaking too much to let me walk and not wanting to risk falling on the unforgiving tile. I finally manage to slowly climb out, dry myself, and make my way to the bed.

I hear the squeak of one of Grace's toys and marvel that people with small children manage to make more than one of them. How could she possibly have such a knack for interrupting just as I'm about to...

Oh.

Henry returns to the bedroom, his hastily tied dressing gown parted widely to expose his damp chest and tented slightly over his still half hard cock.

"I think I've deduced the problem," I announce as he closes the bedroom door.

"What?"

I moan loudly in a fair imitation of the sounds I made in the shower.

Grace barks, as I expected.

After a pause, Henry's face twitches with amusement and he opens the door. "It's okay, sweetheart," he calls just loud enough to make it clear she is nearby but not directly outside the door. "Daddy's fine."

He chuckles as he shuts the door and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. "She thinks I'm hurting you?"

"She doesn't understand the noises we're making. She thinks we're in distress."

He laughs harder.

"Oh, come off it," I say bitterly. "I feel like my balls are going to burst."

He sighs, amused, and runs his fingers down the center of my chest. "Well, you'll just have to learn to be a little quieter then." He toys with one nipple, gently pinching and rubbing until it hardens – more than it already was in the cool air of the bedroom - beneath his fingers. He moves to the other nipple, flicking idly. "We could put up a proper fence so she can be outside when we make love and you can make all the noises you want, but that might have to wait until spring."

I can't formulate a response. I can't think about how we might best reduce further disruptions to our sexual activities. Right now all I can think about is the ache between my legs and the long, slender fingers dancing across my chest. The fact that he has reduced me to this base creature should probably horrify me, but I am, after all, human. And a sexual high is far more socially acceptable than a chemical one. 

Is that why - aside from the mysterious pill I take twice daily - I am currently clean? Does my husband's ability to satisfy me sexually preclude any need for less savory stimulation?

"Will?"

I focus on Henry, who is looking at me as if he is waiting for an answer to a question I can't recall him asking. My mind must have wandered. "Mmm?"

He smiles and traces his fingers down my body, stopping at the line of pubic hair and circling back to my abdomen, drawing seemingly random patterns on my skin. "What would you like me to do? Bearing in mind that we should try not to make too much noise."

My mind offers up several possibilities all at once. I cannot choose.

His smile grows wider and he pulls away, standing to remove his dressing gown, dropping it carelessly on the floor. He climbs back on the bed, hovering above me, and kisses me slowly, leisurely, as if his need isn't almost as desperate as mine.

I reach to grip the back of his head, trying to pull him closer without taking control entirely. I let my hands rest there, toying with a couple mussed curls of hair, as he kisses down my neck. He keeps moving down, planting soft, wet kisses in his wake, his tongue darting briefly into my navel. My fingers itch with the impulse to tighten my grip and guide his mouth where I am most desperate to have it, but I resist.

"Patience," he murmured earlier after I bemoaned the amount of time he spent preparing me. "It's better if you don't try to rush it."

And then his mouth wraps around the head of my cock and my fingers curl in his hair and it takes all of my self control not to pull his head down and fuck his throat. Would he let me? I remember throwing him on the bed, wrenching his head back as I fucked him without restraint. Did he want me to be rough with him or did I get carried away?

I let my hands fall away, reaching to grip the edge of the mattress as he settles between my legs, spreading my thighs wider and licking delicately at my anus.

I bite my lip, determined not to beg. His tongue moves in maddening circles, stopping only so he can bite at my gluteal muscles and give me the filthiest kiss that has ever been bestowed on my body. When his tongue finally pushes inside me again, I yelp.

Henry stops and my head clears a bit. I hold my breath. Maybe she didn't hear.

My hopes are dashed a moment later when Grace barks.

Henry sits up, splaying a warm hand across my abdomen, pressing me firmly into the mattress. He holds the forefinger of his other hand to his lips.

I hold still, barely daring to breathe, feeling like a little boy trying to avoid being caught out awake past bedtime.

'This isn't going to work. I've already sabotaged my chances again.' 

I hear the soft snorts of Grace snuffling the door frame. Then a huff. Then silence.

Henry smiles and I feel my body relax. "Think you can do better than that, darling, or am I going to have to gag you," he asks.

His tone makes it clear he is just teasing me, but I answer in all seriousness "that depends on what you want to gag me with."

His smiles falters as he processes my words, his eyes darkening with arousal. I give him a look I hope is appropriately wicked and eye his cock.

He groans. "Tempting as that sounds, we've tried it before. It did not go well and I would rather not put you through that again." I frown and he kisses me softly. "If I continue where I left off..." he traces a delicate finger up the underside of my cock, his touch gossamer light, making me suck in a breath. "Do you think you can find another way to keep quiet?"

I nod. 

He laughs. "You can breathe, Will."

I didn't realize I wasn't. I take in a shaky breath and bite back a whimper as he rubs his thumb idly over the head of my cock.

"So beautiful," he murmurs. "You can make noises, just try to avoid anything too loud or sharp." He brings his thumb to his mouth and laps the drop of pre-ejaculate he just swiped away. 

"Fuck..." I squirm.

He gives me a pointed look, obviously understanding exactly what he is doing to me and, moving with the grace of a large, predatory cat, situates himself back over my lower body.

He teases me with a couple wet kisses to my abdomen and hip before taking me in his mouth. My back arches and I reach to grip the bedhead, groaning. He is spectacularly good at this. I breathe in shallow gasps, trying to relax into the pleasure while maintaining full control over my senses as his tongue swirls around the head of my cock, prodding at the sensitive spot on the underside. I have never thought of myself as loud while engaging in sexual activities, but the effort of holding in any possible vocalizations brings everything else into sharper focus. I can hear every tiny creak of the bedsprings, feel the drops of sweat sliding down my neck, smell the unmistakable musk of sex in the air. 

I hear the pop of a lubricant tube cap and wonder how he managed to retrieve that for a second before his fingers are inside me, easily finding my prostate, and my thoughts scatter. I gather the nearest pillow to my mouth to muffle the whimpering noises I can't seem to stop. I am too warm. Burning up. All sensation narrows to the places he is touching me, the pleasure he is coaxing from me.

I feel a spasm in my pelvic muscles and suck in a breath. I'm going to come. No...I am coming. My body is shaking and I whimper into the pillow helplessly, using it to muffle the string of nonsense syllables and half-formed words falling from my mouth with each pulsing wave.

Suddenly Henry is looming over me again, pushing his cock into my unresisting body. I reach for him instinctively, gripping his shoulders, his arse, trying to get him closer. He kisses me hungrily, groaning into my mouth as he shudders to a stop.

He eases down onto his elbows and I wrap rubbery arms around his back. Our panting breaths mingle as we calm and he nuzzles me in a way that is almost more suggestive and erotic than anything he just finished doing between my legs.

"Gorgeous," he whispers.

"Mmm..." 

My body is still trembling, my muscles contracting greedily around his softening cock. He makes a noise that sounds almost pained. I grip his shoulders, my fingers straining for purchase on his slick skin, suddenly afraid he might try to pull away. He doesn't. He kisses me slowly, softly, unhurriedly. 

My body relaxes and I feel the odd, not exactly pleasant sensation of his soft penis sliding from me. He murmurs reassurances and carefully detangles himself with vows to return momentarily, then disappears into the bathroom.

As my breathing calms, I feel myself sinking into the mattress. I feel as if I have been doing wind sprints and I'm sure I will be sore once the endorphins wear off. I close my eyes and try to figure out what the nagging thought at the back of my mind is. I'm pretty sure it was important.

I startle as a wet cloth touches my abdomen.

"Sorry," Henry says. "Were you falling asleep already?"

"Do I often fall asleep after sex?"

He smiles. "No, but that was rather a marathon, wasn't it? Think I could use a bit of a kip myself."

He has a bit of hair sticking up awkwardly. I reach to fix it as he bends to clean the mess between my legs. And suddenly I realize what the nagging thought was. In the throes of passion, when I had been overwhelmed and on the brink of orgasm, a name had crystallized in my mind amid the cascade of thoughts. That name hadn’t been Henry, nor, as I might have feared, John.

It had been Josh.

My mind reels. There must be a reason that name would spring to my mind in the heat of passion. But what could that reason possibly be? It must be something from the months I’m missing.

Henry isn’t his real name.

The thought intrudes on me like a memory almost forgotten. Is it a deduction I have made before or just something I'm coming up with now?

He kisses my lips, startling me from my thoughts. I look up at his smiling face. 

"What are you thinking about, darling?"

I debate the wisdom of asking him and decide it is worth the risk. "Do I know anyone named Josh?"

His smile falters. "No...why?" He is lying. Obviously.

"Thought I was remembering something, but I don’t have a context."

This seems to ease the wariness in his eyes. "Someone from a case?"

I pretend to consider that for a moment. "Maybe."

He touches my hip with light fingers over hand-shaped bruises that are already beginning to form. "Should I get you some paracetamol?"

I consider this for a moment. I am sore, but for now the lingering pleasurable feelings are out-weighing the ache. His comparison to a marathon is apt. The buzz is similar to a runner's high. "Maybe later."

As he leaves me to finish cleaning himself up in the bath, I recall my notes about a barely legible inscription on the inside of my wedding band – visible only in my mind palace. I close my eyes and nip in for a moment. 

As I hoped, amid the barely legible squiggles are the letters J, O and H. I probably once assumed they were supposed to spell "John", but now I see the faint "S" between the "O" and "H". I concentrate on the letters, tracing them with my eyes until they stand out.

Josh.

I turn the ring between my fingers, inspecting the other markings, but all I can make out are random letters and the initials TS. They must be names, but how many are there? And how are they significant?

I return to the present as the bed dips beneath his weight. He draws the covers up and pulls me into his arms. His skin is cooled enough to make me shiver slightly as he wraps his long limbs around me, fitting my body into the curve of his.

"I love you," he whispers between soft kisses to my neck and shoulders.

I know he is lying to me, but not about this. He cares deeply for me. I reach to cover the hand he has pressed to my chest and feel the band on his own ring finger. I need to sort through all the conflicting data, but...it can wait a couple hours.

I relax and let myself drift to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a dog who is like Grace. Not that he interrupts you while you're having sex, but he's very sensitive to noises he thinks mean you are in distress. You cannot yell around him. It's pretty sweet, really. I decided to make it one of Grace's quirks. :)


	20. Day 5, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos. I'm happy to see so many people engaging with this story!
> 
> This chapter has some answers, but remember...Sherlock/Will is an unreliable narrator. ;)

There is a hiss coming from somewhere. I open my eyes to twisted metal and broken glass. 

Oh. The car. John had been driving and then suddenly everything had gone dark.

John.

I struggle to turn my head, to look. But where John had been sitting all I see is a body so badly burned it is unrecognizable.

I wake with a start. Oh. A dream. That didn't really happen, did it?

I blink at my surroundings, which I recognize yet cannot quite identify. I sit up and groan as my entire body aches. There's too much light coming from the window for it to be morning. How long was I asleep?

I catch sight of some photographs lying on the table beside the bed and reach for them. 

The image of a familiar man reading in bed triggers a memory of him hovering over me, thrusting inside me, whispering in my ear. The other picture – a beautiful King Charles spaniel – prompts a memory of stroking my hand over soft fur.

Henry. Grace.

Your name is William. You are suffering from amnesia. John Watson is dead. 

When did I read that?

I stumble into the loo, feeling what I hope is just Henry's semen trickle from me.

I am just finishing washing up, cataloging all the bruises and scratches on my body, when he knocks tentatively and, without waiting for a response, peeks into the room. "Will? Are you alright sweetheart?"

He is holding a glass of water in his left hand. I look automatically to the band circling his ring finger. My husband. 

"Do you know who I am," he asks tentatively. 

I nod. My eyes linger on the bruise under his eye and I feel a faint twinge in my hand. "Henry," I murmur.

He is obviously relieved at that. He steps closer and unfurls his right hand, holding it out to me. Two paracetamol tablets sit invitingly on his palm. "Thought you might be needing these now."

He is only wearing pants beneath his dressing gown. The smell of him – of us mingled together – hits me and the memories grow clearer. My fingers twisting in the sheets as I strain to keep quiet, gripping his backside tightly in an effort to draw him deeper inside me.

I take the pills from him gratefully and drain the glass of water. Henry hovers beside me, resting a hand on my hip and studying my face intently. "What's wrong, darling?"

Sweetheart. Darling. Normally I would have balked at such ridiculous endearments, but he does it with such sincerity and naked adoration that I find myself enjoying it and craving his attention.

Whether by coincidence or because he can read the desire on my face, he sets the glass on the counter, cradles my face in his hands and kisses me softly, his lips barely parted. A tender demonstration of affection.

A whimper slips from me before I can stop it.

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, searching intently. Right. He's some sort of doctor, isn't he?

I shake my head in answer to his unasked question and bury my face in his shoulder, shivering as he wraps his arms around me.

"It's all right," he whispers in my ear as he unconsciously sways, instinctively comforting me. "Shh...it's all right, love."

*************

I finish reading my journal for the second time today and stare at the blinking cursor, nursing my second cup of Earl Grey mixed with something stronger. Apparently it is a blend that Henry discovered I like months ago.

Months. I have been living like this for months. Much of what I just read seems familiar to me and I have a recollection of reading it all earlier this morning, but certain details are muddled, the data corrupted.

I try to piece together the events of this morning from the data I have gathered and things Henry has told me, reconstructing memories as they try to unravel. I woke from a nightmare. Unable to go back to sleep, I read my journal. I texted Mary, who assured me Rosie is well. We had an odd sort of exchange wherein we both seemed to be trying to express sympathy for our mutual loss without saying the words outright. I note in my journal the selfishness of this. It is bad enough that I have to begin the grieving process over again every day without forcing her to pick at her own wounds. She is capable of moving on where I can't. I shouldn't keep holding her back. All future conversations with her should be restricted to Rosie's welfare.

There is a lewd picture of me on Henry's phone (his lock code was absurdly easy to crack) from later this morning. My hips are propped on a pillow, my legs splayed open, my cock arching upward, my mouth open mid-demand that he get his arse back on the bed and fuck me already. There are no other pictures after that, but I recall now being interrupted by Grace and discovering she is disturbed by loud noises that are similar to distress.

"I'll have to build a more solid fence in the spring so we can let her out in the garden when we make love," Henry said when I recalled this detail. "But for now we might just have to gag you." He said it in a joking tone, but the thought of using something to muffle any errant noises from me during sex obviously excited him. Or, more accurately, the thought that I couldn't help myself from making those noises and needed to be muffled appealed to his pride in his sexual prowess.

He has spent almost the entire afternoon fretting over me, making me regret my moment of vulnerability in the loo. His concern and devotion are obvious, even if I doubt he is being entirely honest. The problem is I am not really sure *how* he is lying to me. I just know something isn't right. Even if I can no longer trust my memory, I trust my instincts.

When I manage to get some time alone, I go into my mind palace, hoping to gather more data I may have stored on "Josh".

John is waiting for me. Not the 19th century John with the comical moustache, but my John, dressed in jeans and a soft jumper, tending to a dying fire in the mantle of 221b. He stands, brushing soot from his hands and gestures at the tea tray on the table. "Tea?"

"Ah, no." I watch as he pours himself a cup. "You look well."

"For a dead man, you mean." He smiles wryly, then reaches for a familiar jar of honey, adding a spoonful to his cup. "You look very thoroughly shagged."

I wince. "That obvious?"

He chuckles. "Extremely " He takes his usual chair and gestures to mine. "Have a seat. If you can sit, that is."

"Glad you're amused," I mutter as I go to retrieve the ring perched on my music stand instead. I peer at the markings - the only legible ones of which are still TS and Josh. "How much do you know about my husband?"

"I know he's a doctor and he took care of you after the accident."

The accident that killed John. "Did you ever meet him? Before the accident, I mean?"

"I don't think so."

"What is his name?"

"Henry."

"Are you sure? I haven't called him anything else?"

John sets his tea cup on the table and reaches out his hand. "Can I see that?" I hand him the ring and he twists it in his fingers, squinting at the markings. "Can barely even read most of this. You think his real name is Josh?"

"I don't know. But the initials TS are familiar to me. Are they related to our last case?"

"Maybe. I don't remember the details of the case, honestly. I don't think we'd been on it for long."

Right. My mind palace is a fantastic memory tool, but it is limited to my memories. This is not really John - only my memory of him.

"Obviously it's important or you wouldn't have put it here," John continues. "You put it on your wedding ring, so it must be directly connected to Henry. He could have been a suspect. Or related to the victim."

A spark of hope reignites in me. I may not be able to recover my memories, but maybe I can still use my mind palace to solve this mystery. And John - even if he is just a projection of my own memory of him - can still act as my conductor of light, guiding me to a logical conclusion. "He has no family. None he is in contact with anyway. Only child. Both parents are dead."

"Why would he change his name?"

"Maybe he was a witness?"

John nods thoughtfully. "That might explain why you changed your name as well. You could be hiding from a powerful enemy."

"One that has already proven themselves capable of murdering anyone who gets too close and making it look like an accident?"

John's eyes meet mine. Were they always such a dark blue? "You know even if that were true, it wouldn't be your fault."

"Yes, but that might explain why I ran and changed names. To try to protect Mary, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson..."

"But that doesn't make sense. If someone were looking for you that would only put them in even *more* danger. He could flush you out of hiding just by threatening to harm them. Unless..."

"Unless they think I'm dead."

John shakes his head, laughing wryly. "You faked your death and assumed a new identity. Of course."

"No. That doesn't make sense. Why would I still be in contact with everybody?"

"You're not, though, are you? You occasionally call or text from a number that is probably unlisted. You always initiate the conversation."

I realize this is true. The only person who has ever initiated a conversation according to my notes is Mycroft, and he often calls Henry instead of me just as he used to call John when he wanted to check up on me. Mycroft would know how to reach somebody in witness protection. Does that mean Henry - or whatever his real name is - is officially dead as well?

"Most likely," John says, reminding me that he is literally in my head. "But then the question would be how did you really meet? Did it happen as your notes claim or was he your handler? Your contact? Did Mycroft assign him to protect you?"

I shake my head. "No. I'm not just an assignment to him. He obviously genuinely loves me."

"The fact that he is in love with you doesn't necessarily mean you weren't an assignment to begin with."

I open my mouth to reply, but before I can speak, Grace appears beside me and barks urgently. I blink down at her and 221b disappears, taking John with it. Grace wags her tail and barks again. 

"Gracie!" Henry appears in the doorway, her leash in his hand. His hands are slightly damp. "I'm sorry, I turned my back on her to get the leash and she disappeared."

I sit up, still finding my bearings, my thoughts swirling chaotically. Do I confront him with what I know? Am I sure I really know anything?

What do I have to lose?

"Who are you?"

His smile disappears instantly, his eyes widening with alarm. "I'm your husband..."

"I know what you told me. I'm asking for the truth. What is your real name?"

Grace runs in excited circles, then runs past Henry, most likely headed for the front door. 

Understanding slowly replaces the fear in his eyes. He nods. "Get your coat. We can talk while we're walking Gracie."

******************

His name was Josh Amberley. He was a doctor at the London A&E where I was taken after the accident. All the events in my journal are more or less accurate, but omit the one detail that Henry - he insists this is his current legal name - now confirms: the man who tried to kill me, the one who successfully killed John, is still out there.

"But why did I delete this from my notes? Why am I not using my anonymity to help catch this Gruener?" Andrew Gruener is the name of the mysterious killer I am on the run from. It rings a bell somewhere in the muddled recesses of my mind.

"You do," Henry says. "On the days when you remember. But it's dangerous. As long as he believes you are dead then you and everyone you care about are safe. Mycroft and I believed it might be better - safer - if you were occasionally allowed to forget."

I scoff. "Typical Mycroft. Justifies his meddling as being for my own good."

"It's not just Mycroft." He steps in front of me as Grace becomes distracted sniffing a patch of grass. "Look. This plan may have been mostly your brother's and based in part on your previous plot to fake your death, but I am far from an unwilling participant in this." He cups my face between his hands and speaks in a low, forceful voice. "I love you. More than anything in this world. More than life itself. I gave up the life I had to join you because I couldn’t bear to live without you."

Grace tugs at the leash and Henry reluctantly lets go so we can continue the walk.

"What's the plan then? Lay low until my memory improves and then try to take down Gruener?"

"Right now, all we're trying to do is keep you safe. That and helping you get better are my only concerns."

"How many people has he killed? How many more will die before I can stop him?"

"You were never able to prove that he killed anyone. All the deaths you claimed he was responsible for were ruled accidental. There was never any evidence to suggest they were orchestrated, as you said they were."

Accidents. The picture becomes clearer. "He killed John."

"That's what you claimed he told you, but there was no evidence and it wasn't exactly a confession. Nobody believed you."

"Except you."

Henry nods. "Although I can't exactly fault them. You were in the early stages of your condition and your memory was even less reliable than it is now. You were paranoid. Easily agitated." He sighs. "I was already falling in love with you, so I was hardly in a position to be objective, but where others saw grief and desperation exacerbated by a head injury I saw genuine fear and conviction. I don't know if he killed anyone before or since, but I believe he is a threat to you. Which is why when you convinced Mycroft that you needed to die again and retreat from London I offered to join you. To take care of you and help manage your cover."

"You mean lie to me."

He exhales with a soft but audible burst of air. "If I were lying to you, why would I be telling you all of this now?" He faces me again as Grace stops to urinate, taking my hands in his. "You know how obsessed you get when you're working on a case. You once stayed awake for three days tracking him, afraid you would lose your memories again if you slept. By the time I convinced you that you were doing nothing Scotland Yard couldn't you had driven yourself half mad." 

His fingertips are slightly wrinkled, I note. Combined with the dampness of his hands earlier it is obvious he was cleaning when Grace interrupted him. 

He ducks his head, staring intently into my eyes. "Look, I know you are impatient and I know it is difficult for you, but you need to let this go. At least for now."

At one point in my journal, I described myself as a housewife, but I am not entirely certain what my domestic role is. Henry does the cooking, the cleaning. He takes care of my every need. I write in a journal every day and have sex with him almost every night. He is so utterly devoted to me that he doesn't see this as one-sided. He would do anything for me - including lie to protect me from harm.

"Will?"

I focus. "I don't deserve you."

He blinks, surprised, then laughs softly. He lets go of my hands and frames my face lightly between his fingers. "You deserve more than I have it in me to give." He leans into me, brushing his lips against mine softly, almost cautiously. As if I am made of glass. "I wish you could see yourself as I do," he whispers against my lips.

Love is a construct. An effort to define the intangible feelings of attachment one feels for a parent, a child, a friend, a sexual partner. I understand how it works and I have felt it in many forms. But never quite like this. As if I have discovered some previously unknown part of myself. Something I never realized I was missing but suddenly can't bear the thought of losing again. 

We've been stopped for a long time, I realize suddenly. I look around, dazed, but we are practically alone. It is too cold for most people to be venturing out. I look down at Grace, who hasn't objected to this pause in our walk. She is sitting on the curb, panting heavily, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.

Henry follows my gaze and laughs again. "Poor thing, she's tired."

"We've barely circled the block."

"Yes, well..." He lifts her into his arms and nuzzles her soft head. "She is still a puppy. She needs to build endurance." He smiles at me. "Let's go home."


	21. Day 5, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a little late with this installment. Life has been insanely busy (not to mention crappy) lately and finding time to write is a challenge. Thank you to all my lovely readers for putting up with my slowness. I'll try to be a little early with the next chapter. :)
> 
> This chapter contains a more graphic in the description of John's death. Thank you again to Megabat for providing me with the coroner's report and obituary which continue to inspire me with their details.

Grace heads straight for her water bowl when we return. I go into my study and retrieve my violin. I need to think.

I go back over the details of my journal and compare them to what I know now. John and I were working a case. The suspect arranged for us to be involved in an "accident" that killed John and left me with amnesia. Henry - then known as Josh - was my doctor. He fell in love with me. And when it became clear that the killer was still a threat he joined me in hiding, helping to treat my condition, biding time until I can gather the evidence to solve the case.

And what will happen to him when I solve it? When my condition improves enough that I no longer need him?

'By then I will have fallen in love with him.'

My fingers falter on the strings. Of course. That's why he is so desperate to prove his devotion to me. That's why he only tells me these details when I am already remembering them. He tells himself it is to keep me safe, but in truth he fears the day I no longer have a reason to remain in hiding. He fears he will lose me.

'I long for those days in Venice when I could spend hours in bed just worshipping your body.'

In effect, we are still on our honeymoon. Sheltered from the world. He dreads the inevitable day the honeymoon ends.

"Very romantic."

I stop playing. I was so lost in thought I didn't hear him approach. I had been playing Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet theme. I look at him holding a steaming mug of tea in one hand and a folder in the other, cocking his head in amusement. "Romeo and Juliet isn't actually a love story..."

"It's a tragedy, yes, I know. I am as well versed in Shakespeare as you.* Still, it is the universally recognized love theme."

"Is that the case on Gruener?"

He holds up the folder. "Yes. I figured you would want to go through it. Although very little has changed since you last read it."

I put the violin down and reach for it eagerly. But it is much too thin. It can't contain much more than the folder I consult every morning before opening the journal. "Is this all of it?"

He shrugs. "He's a ghost. The only evidence you ever really had was his confession to you."

I glance at the first page in the folder and groan. "He's a spy."

"An assassin. Probably why some of the people he claims to have killed were never found."

The spy who didn't come in from the cold. Who developed a taste for killing and has the skills to get away with it. My eyes are drawn to Henry's mug as he blows delicately across the surface of the hot tea. "Do you have any more of that?"

*****************

We talk at the kitchen table over tea and ginger nuts - another thing he knows I like. He shows me the data we have collected on a memory stick that he plugs into my laptop. Andrew Gruener, it turns out, really is a ghost. His history is just as obviously a fabrication as Mary's. There are hardly any pictures of him other than an old MI-5 file photo of a dark haired man with non-descript features. He is the perfect agent - one who can blend into a crowd, look like anyone, or simply be utterly unmemorable.

The folder also contains details of the murders he claims to have committed. Lengthy accounts I seem to have written exactly as Gruner described them to me. Waiting for his victims on a rooftop perch, by the side of the road or in a car parked around the corner. The satisfaction he felt as he watched their heads explode or their bodies roll to a stop on the pavement after being broken on the bonnet of the car.

"These were hits," I murmur.

"It seems that way," Henry agrees. "You couldn't find any unsolved murders that matched the details he gave you, which you took to mean either they were state sanctioned assassinations or he made them up to convince you he was dangerous." Henry scrolls up and points to the screen. "But these are different. These are the ones he orchestrated to look like accidents. Faulty wiring, damaged break lines, poisons that cannot be detected, an air embolism. You could never prove these victims existed, but even if you could find them the only evidence you had that they were murdered came from private conversations you would forget and he would deny ever having."

Genius. "He told me all of these things after the accident? There was nothing from before?"

Henry nods. "He called you. Sent emails through anonymous accounts from public computers. He taunted you, but you couldn't prove the two of you ever spoke." He gestures to the screen. "These were just the murders you remember him telling you about. There may have been others. Things he told you before you started writing them down so you wouldn't forget."

"But I must have noticed him before the accident. I must have been following a lead. Done something to get his attention."

Henry winces almost imperceptibly. "No. The accident was how he got your attention. You didn't know he existed before. Your initial theory was that he wanted you to notice him. That he wanted to be caught. But you quickly revised that theory. You think he wanted to prove that he is smarter than you. That he could literally get away with murdering people and even you couldn't prove anything."

"He claims he caused my accident. You said he confessed, but it wasn't really a confession. That seems inconsistent with the rest of the murders he claims to have committed. He couldn't possibly have known the accident wouldn't kill both me and John."

Henry hesitates, his finger hovering over the laptop trackpad a moment before abandoning it and turning toward me. "Your injury always made it difficult to determine what, exactly happened. There were no other witnesses, no cameras. No evidence that there was another car at all. It looked as if John swerved suddenly to avoid something and collided with a tree nearly dead on." He runs a finger along his lower lip, hesitating. Then he sighs and forges ahead. "Gruener claimed there was another car - the one he was driving. He said the damage to your car was severe enough to mask the damage he initially did when he forced you from the road." **

"He didn't intend for me to survive," I realize. What better way to prove himself smarter than me than by getting away with my murder?

"No, I think he did. The crash wasn't enough to kill either of you as long as you were properly secured and the airbags deployed."

"So he didn't intend to kill John."

Something that looks almost like disappointment flashes across his face. As if he hoped I would remember this part. As if he wishes he didn't have to tell me this. "You read the coroner's report, darling," he says quietly. "The cause of death was a puncture wound to the femoral artery. By the time the paramedics arrived, he had lost too much blood. His injury was consistent with car crash victims, so nobody checked to make sure there was a bit of metal in the wreckage that could conceivably have done the damage during the accident."

I can see it clearly in my mind now. The man from the photo prying open the door or simply reaching through the shattered window. His hand gloved so he wouldn't leave fingerprints. Driving a sharpened piece of metal into John's femoral artery. Did he leave it there or did he toss it on the floor to be lost among the debris? Was John conscious? Did he know what was happening? Did he know...

I lunge for the laptop and scroll up to the murder I know I will find before Henry can stop me. 

'The pain brought him 'round a bit. I watched him strain to try to look at you, obviously concerned. He said your name in that moment of consciousness as his blood spilled over my hand. Your name and nothing else. Sherlock.'

I'm going to be sick.

Henry closes the laptop and maneuvers me to face him, cradling my head in his hands. He is speaking to me, but I can't understand the words. Everything makes sense suddenly. Why I ran away from London. Why I faked my death again. Why I would choose to forget this part of the story. Why the very mention of the name I have used for most of my adult life makes me uncomfortable. My notes suggest I changed it because I couldn't bear to think of my old life, but that's not quite right. I can't bear remembering how it ended.

But it isn't simple grief I'm feeling. I didn't lose my only friend to an accident. He was murdered by a psychopath determined to prove he is smarter than me. And in a cruel twist of fate, he left me with a condition that would prevent me from being able to remember it.

No, that can't be right. He would want me to know what he had done. My amnesia would have ruined his plans.

"He lied," I conclude. "It's too elaborate. There are too many variables to control, too many risks. He's too methodical and detailed."

A sad smile flickers across Henry's face as I focus on him and he slowly lets his hands fall from my face, gathering my hands instead. I have come to this conclusion before, I realize. I go back over our earlier conversation in my mind. 'Nobody believed you. There was never any evidence.'

"He didn't kill John. He wanted me to believe he did because it gave him power over me."

"That is one of your theories," Henry agrees.

"But I must have believed he was a credible threat or I wouldn't have run." Unless... "Mary."

Henry squeezes my hands. "You suspected he might be bluffing, but you couldn't risk it. You promised John you would protect them."

Them. Of course. I had already failed to prevent Rosie from losing one parent. If there was even a chance she could lose both...

"It isn't about getting away with murder. It was about proving he is more clever. I'm not hiding. I'm waiting for him to slip up." The pieces are falling into place rapidly in my mind. "Someone who gets off on killing as he claims he does wouldn't just stop. If he is, in fact, killing anyone. But killing Mary, Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade is too much of a risk - too much of a coincidence to ever be mistaken for an accident no matter how careful he is." I reach for the laptop, scrolling past the description of John's death to find a collection of accidental deaths I have been compiling - ones that Gruener could conceivably be responsible for. 

Henry's hand closes gently around my wrist. "All you can do right now is gather evidence. Until your condition improves..."

"He cannot know I'm alive. He has to think he's getting away with it." I look into Henry's eyes - a blue so light they almost appear grey. "I'll be careful."

He looks wary. Resigned. I think again of my theory that he fears losing me once I no longer need him.

Need him.

Of course.

"Gruener threatened you too," I say as the realization crystallizes in my mind. "That's why you agreed to go into hiding with me. You were in just as much danger as the others, but you were more important to me."

He blinks, looking stunned for a moment. "Do you really think so little of me?"

Oops. Instinctively, I do what I always do when people point out that something I have said is "not good". I try to justify it. "No, but people are never entirely altruistic. You couldn't possibly have agreed to fake your death and go into hiding for the indefinite future - having to care for someone who barely remembers you - just because you love me."

Henry's fingers twitch on my wrist. "Just because..." He shakes his head. "You really don't understand, do you? I’m not some martyr who made a gallant sacrifice. I didn't simply *agree* to this arrangement. I *love* you. More than I knew it was possible to love anyone before." He cups my cheek, preventing me from turning my head and staring intently into my eyes, as if he can force me to see this the way he does. "Yes, I was in danger, but I would gladly have died for you had this been something simple like stepping in front of a bullet to save you. If anything were to happen to you, my life would be forfeit anyway. But you didn't need me to die. You needed me to *live*. To continue treating you and keeping you safe. Taking care of you is not a burden. I take the vows I made very seriously. In sickness and in health. I am yours and you are mine."

You are mine.

The words echo through my mind. He has said them before.

I don't know what to say to his declaration. I don't think he expects me to say anything. He leans in to kiss me, a tender brush of his lips that seems far too gentle and restrained after such an impassioned speech. 

"Do your research," he murmurs. "Compile your data. But do not do anything that would compromise you. Even if you think it won't affect us here...I cannot bear to watch you mourn the loss of another."

This might be the selfish part, I think. He has watched me mourn John every day for the better part of a year. He is probably tired of consoling me. 

He stands slowly, then hesitates. "Would you like some more tea, darling?"

I glance at the mostly empty cup. "Maybe later."

He nods and presses a lingering kiss to the top of my head, carefully avoiding the mostly healed scar from the accident. "I'm going to finish cleaning and then I'll start dinner."

I should offer to help. But right now this work is more important and I can't waste time on mindless activities if I will forget all the progress I make tomorrow. He probably knows this. "Okay."

He squeezes my shoulder before leaving the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Here's where my choice of casting becomes important. I got a kick out of picturing Tom Hiddleston saying this to Benedict Cumberbatch.
> 
> ** Let's just say I have first hand knowledge that such a thing is possible.


	22. Day 5, Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the best readers. Seriously. I love you guys. Life was kicking me in the ass when I posted that last chapter and the encouragement and support and caring that I got in response really gave me the strength to get through it. Thank you!
> 
> You may have noticed that I posted a "new" offshoot to this story containing extra materials. So far it just has the obituary and death certificate Megabat made for me along with her beautiful cover art (also linked here). But I intend to use it for anything that doesn't fit here including possible "deleted" scenes and memes, interviews or research that has served as inspiration for parts of this story.

"Since when do you smoke?"

Molly shrugs and takes a slow drag. I wonder if I still have the occasional cigarette as I watch the smoke curl around her. Is my lingering craving for nicotine haunting my mind palace?

"Do you have an ID yet," I ask, indicating the charred body on the slab.

"You know who he is."

I thought I did. My notes indicate it is John, but it doesn't make sense. "How did he die?"

She is frowning at me the way she always does when she suspects I am mocking her. "Car crash. The car caught fire before he could get out."

"But it didn't catch fire. Something isn't adding up."

"That's because you're not observing," Mycroft sighs. He has appeared unannounced, standing over the charred body.

Even in my mind palace he has to remind me of my shortcomings. 

I join him, standing on the opposite side of the slab, retrieving the notes Molly has made. 'Male,' I read. 'Approximately forty years old. Six feet tall.'

I stop reading. This isn't John.

I skim the description of the injuries to the body. Among the expected impact injuries and fire damage is an old, healed bullet wound. Not to the shoulder, but to the chest.

I look down at the body and find the hole right where Mary put it. It doesn't look "old".

"Of course, finding a body that matches your general description was easy," Mycroft explains. "We've had to improvise on some of the details."

Molly stands beside Mycroft, her arms folded over her chest. By "we", he obviously means her. 

"Is his body here too?"

Molly nods toward the freezer compartment. "Already finished."

Of course. It makes sense. Molly was instrumental in helping me fake my death before. I would have reached out to her again. Except... "You said he died in a car crash..."

"Yes, well," Mycroft sighs. "The pool of recently deceased people matching your physical description who donated their bodies to science is rather limited. As I said, we had to improvise."

I drop the file on an equipment tray and face him. "Whose idea was it to keep all of this from me?"'

"You already know the answer We agreed this arrangement was for the best given your mental state."

"So yours."

He gives me a withering look.

"Sometimes you have to lie to protect the people you love," Molly says with a sort of quiet forcefulness. I turn to her and her eyes bore into mine. "You of all people should know that."

Henry is a liar. 

Henry loves me.

These are the two conclusions I have always been certain of. Continuing themes in my notes. I'm not sure if I've ever thought of them as being so closely related with such clarity. Molly may not be quite the conductor of light that John was, but she understands people and she is far more sensitive to their emotions.

She makes an exasperated noise. "I don't just mean *Henry*." She jerks her head in Mycroft's direction.

Yes, of course I know my brother's meddling and overprotective instincts stem from whatever filial love he has always denied being capable of feeling. But neither of us has any use for public acknowledgement of such sentiments. And I still resent the fact that he's probably enjoying being able to control me through Henry even as I realize my condition necessitates the arrangement to an extent.

I nod and grunt vaguely.

My mobile buzzes, saving me from going any further with this conversation.

I return to my study, where I have holed myself up to do my research and write my notes for today. I texted Lestrade before going into my mind palace, informing him that I remember everything and asking for more possible Gruener cases.

'Welcome back,' the responding text says. 'We just have one possible case since the last.' He gives me a case number so I can locate the file in their database.

'Gruener was in the area at the time of the accident?'

'Can't be certain, but it's possible. Can't exactly tail a man who doesn't seem to be doing anything illegal.'

I open the file. It is an accident report. A homeless man fell from a roof onto a parked car. Nobody knew who he was. He didn't seem to have any family. It could be a suicide. But homeless people and runaways make perfect victims for serial killers. 

My phone buzzes again. 'How are you?'

'Fine.'

I transcribe all the relevant details into the file on the memory stick and clip a rather grisly photo of the victim's twisted remains as they were found. Does he look surprised? Scared? Why did he choose to jump from the roof of a building - if it was, in fact, his choice? Why not a bridge? Did he mean to land on that car? Was he trying to send a message? Was Gruener?

Another text. 'How's married life treating you?'

A groan slips from me and I debate whether telling him that I still have semen inside me from our rather spectacular sexual encounter this morning would put an end to this conversation.

Then I remember this is Lestrade I am talking to and feel a pang of guilt. 

My thumbs hover over the keyboard a moment before I type 'fine. How are you and Mrs. H?'

'Safe as houses. Don't you worry about us.'

Grace gallops across the floor outside my office suddenly.

'Gotta go. Give my love to Henry.'

I turn back to the possible Gruener murder, trying to determine if it fits the pattern. I can hear Henry's voice drift from the kitchen. The words are indistinct, but the tone is unmistakable. People always use the same ridiculous baby talk when speaking to infants or pets. The sound of food pouring into her dish explains her excited canter moments ago. He must be finished cleaning. He'll probably start on our dinner next.

Once I have exhausted the new data regarding the Gruener case - this "suicide" definitely looks like his work - I turn to my journal. 

'The body on Molly's slab is not John's. It is...'

I hesitate, remembering Henry's insistence that I not do anything that might compromise our cover. It is quite possible Gruener is trying to get my attention with this latest death - damaging a car to ensure an accident report is filed. Making it just strange enough to get my attention. He suspects I am still alive. He is waiting, hoping I will do something to prove him right. He wants me to slip up - to reveal myself.

It is a game. One he is determined to win and - thanks to my condition - nearly did win once already. If I want to beat him, to stop him, I have to remain hidden. Focus on getting better so that when I am ready to face him it will be with all of my mental faculties intact.

It took me two years to dismantle Moriarty's network. I can be patient.

I focus on my journal, specifically the previous entry where I visited Molly's lab in my mind palace.

"You know this is wrong, don't you? You know this is not real."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes."

Of course. Even though I don't always remember the details of the Gruener case, I understand that I didn't just run away from London and my old life. 

I wasn't escaping. I was going into hiding.

Which brings me back to Henry.

"I love you, my darling. Until my body ceases to draw breath."

"I couldn't bear to live without you."

Surely it is not possible to have such profound feelings for a person after a few months, but I don't doubt they are sincere. He may be intelligent, but he is probably blinded by hormones. Once the novelty of our affair wears off...

Or will it? Is that the appeal? I cannot remember him each morning so we are in a perpetual state of courtship? This makes sense from a biochemical perspective. He gets the thrill of the chase as well as the guarantee that it will end with me in his bed. I get the perpetual rush of doing something new despite knowing I have experienced this before. Our relationship can never become stale and boring.

Unless my condition improves significantly. Which I have every reason to believe will happen given the slow progress I have been charting in this journal.

I delete my aborted attempt at revealing how I have faked my death again and start the entry over, recalling my thoughts about Henry's fear of losing me. 'We are on a carousel, following a predictable pattern day after day. What happens when I am able to step off? When I no longer need Henry to remind me of who I am and how I came to be here? Will he try to follow me? Would I want him to? Am I content with him or am I simply using him to fill the void John left when he died?'

I stare at this last sentence, not quite sure where the thought came from. Henry is nothing like John. And yet he takes care of me, challenges me and indulges me like John did. More than he did.

I delete the sentence and, after a moment's hesitation, type 'am I falling in love with him or am I just giving into the convenience of having someone who will care for me and accept me as I am while demanding little in return?'

I finish adding data to the Gruener file and eject the memory stick. 

Grace is too busy watching Henry cook to notice my arrival at the kitchen door. I pause a minute, watching this perfectly domestic scene.

He changed clothes at some point after he finished cleaning. Nothing fancy and he isn't wearing shoes over his stocking feet. But the blue button-down compliments his eyes. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and my eyes are drawn to the play of muscles in his forearms as he works over the pan on the stove.

I should tell him I'm not hungry and go back to my research. But I am limited in the progress I can make on the case at the moment and it is obvious that Henry isn't just making dinner. He's trying to seduce me. And it's working, I realize. 

He turns to me and smiles and - despite the fact that I am still sore from earlier activities - I feel an upwelling of desire. It occurs to me that sex can be just as addictive as drugs or alcohol. The chemicals released in the brain during orgasm produce a very intoxicating high. I may have traded one vice for another. But if it is provided in the form of a partner who loves me and cares for me...there is far less potential for harm.

Love. I am not the romantic that Henry is, but I cannot deny the combination of need, desire and security that I feel with him. He is a crutch, a bad habit. A brilliant doctor who happily provides for my every need and want and has therefore become the thing I need and want the most.

"Is everything all right, darling?"

My wandering thoughts snap back into focus. "Yes. Fine." I take a deep breath and the smell of cooking fish fills my lungs. "Salmon?"

He focuses back on the food. "With mushroom risotto. I'm trying to recreate a meal we had in Venice. It works better with fresh sea bass, I'm sure, but in a pinch..."

It's Valentine's Day, I remember. A ridiculous commercial holiday that I generally despise. Henry knows this, but he is too much of a romantic to let the holiday pass without some sort of recognition. Instead of cards, chocolates and dinner at an expensive restaurant, he is recreating a meal we had on our honeymoon and dressing as he no doubt would - did - for a date. Perhaps this is what he wore the day we had this meal on our honeymoon. Either way, I have no doubt that the last time he wore that ensemble the night ended in sex. I've no doubt that is how tonight will end as well.

I look down at the worn shirt and joggers I'm wearing beneath my dressing gown. "I'll just...wash up."

He smiles warmly and I feel my breathing falter for a moment. "All right. Don't be too long. This will be ready in twenty minutes."


	23. Day 5, Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised in the last chapter...here's the porn. Like...a lot of it. With some romance thrown in for good measure. Thank you to all the readers continuing to leave comments and kudos. I think you may be the best readers I've had in the almost 20 years I've been writing fanfiction. Love you guys.

He tells me all about that dinner in Venice while we eat. It was one of the few times we left our hotel room. The restaurant was nice, but not overly fancy or expensive. Henry may have enough money for us to live comfortably without me earning a paycheck, but he is practical. He describes the atmosphere in romantic terms. Soft lighting. Live music played by a string quartet. The way my wedding ring glinted as I drank my wine. 

His description of the events later that night in the hotel room are equally colorful. The moonlight dancing on the dark water outside the open window. The sweat glistening on my neck as I arched beneath him, my head hanging over the side of the mattress.

I can almost remember it as he talks, but it's mostly vague, brief images and impressions. His arms around me as I look out at the water. His intense gaze as he looms over me. Music drifting from cafes as I walk along a path. Many of them seem to be tied to pictures - and a brief video of musicians playing Vivaldi - in my journal.

After dinner, I let Grace out to wee while Henry cleans up and inform her that I have no reservations about leaving her tied to the tree nearest the house if she interrupts me in the next few hours as she did this morning. Obviously, she isn't capable of actually understanding this, but it makes me feel better.

There is very little preamble once we reach the bedroom, but it isn't needed. We move slowly - undressing each other and exploring each bit of revealed skin as if we are mapping it for the first time. There is no urgency, even when we climb beneath the covers, our bodies entwined. We thrust against each other almost lazily, gasping softly between wet kisses when the friction is just right.

He pushes me face down and explores my back as he did my front, tracing the scars left by guards during that other time I spent "dead" with gentle fingers and lips. I must have told him how I came by the scars. I wonder if he told me how he came by his.

I swallow a whimper when he reaches my arse and his hot tongue flutters over the aperture swollen from repeated bouts of sex and cleaning. "I don't..." I mumble. "I don't think I can..."

"Shh," he whispers. "I know, darling."

I can't quite bite back the sounds that escape me as he continues to gently prod and tease. I lose track of time. The entirety of my focus is reduced to the pleasure he is slowly, patiently wringing from me.

Just as I feel the tension in my body pass the threshold and know that nothing will stop the coming orgasm, he folds his body around mine, one large hand covering my mouth while the other wraps around my cock. 

"Come for me, Will," he pants in my ear.

His hand muffles my cry as the tension snaps and I shudder, writhing against him as he thrusts against my arse.

He is still thrusting as my body relaxes, his breathing ragged, and I realize he is almost at his own peak. I also realize that I don't want him to come like this - rutting against me like a horny teenager.

"Stop," I gasp, wriggling out from under him. 

His arousal all but evaporates instantly. "What is it," he asks, alarmed. "Did I hurt you?"

I pull myself into a sitting position. "No, just...give me a minute," I pant. I feel weak and my entire body is trembling, but the buzzing high of orgasm is masking the ache I felt before. 

Once I am calmer and steadier, I take in the sight of him, propped up on one elbow, his other hand gently rubbing my thigh in an effort to soothe me. His cock is almost entirely wilted. I feel a moment of guilt, but I couldn't remain passive. I needed to take back control.

I reach for the lubricant he tossed on the bed earlier "just in case" and coat the fingers of my right hand.

His breathing deepens as he watches me and he sinks back on the bed, raising his knees and spreading his legs in wordless invitation.

I massage the furled opening with the tip of one finger tentatively, debating how much he can take. He nods, tilting his hips just slightly and I push two fingers inside. He takes it easily and rocks against me as I explore his body hungrily, mentally cataloging his responses. The way he chuckles when the soft hair on his chest tickles my nose and makes me sneeze. The way he whimpers when I tug a hardening nipple gently between my teeth. The way he sighs and thrusts against my hand as I trace the scar on his abdomen. 

He is fully erect again by the time I take his cock in my mouth. He flails for a moment, as if uncertain what to do with his hands, twisting his fingers briefly in my hair before reaching for the bed head.

It takes a while to find the right rhythm, but soon enough I have him writhing and emitting a stream of soft mewling noises. Judging by the amount of pre-ejaculate dripping on my tongue, he won't last much longer.

After a few more lingering pulls, I crawl up beside him, pushing a third finger in beside the other two and bracing the back of my hand against my hip. This both lessens the strain on my wrist and gives me better leverage. It is unlikely I will achieve another erection tonight, but the friction created as I thrust against him is pleasurable.

He kisses me eagerly, wrapping one leg around my waist, pushing back against my thrusts. I thrust harder, crooking my fingers slightly inside him and rolling my palm over his balls, pulled tightly against his body.  
His hands clutch at my back, his nails scratching over the scars he was just exploring tenderly, utterly mindless. 

'I could do anything I want to him right now,' I realize feverishly and the rush of power is intoxicating.

"I am yours and you are mine," I whisper in his ear. "Come for me."

His right hand stops clawing at my back and wedges between our bodies, pulling wetly at his cock - slick with his arousal and my saliva.

I kiss him roughly, swallowing his groan as he erupts violently, his movements faltering. I keep moving through his orgasm, shuddering as I feel his muscles grip my fingers, imagining - almost remembering - how that would feel wrapped around my cock. Did I just come too or was that an aftershock?

"Stop," he whines between messy kisses, gripping my wrist with a shaking hand, and I realize I am still thrusting. I stop moving, but don't pull out.

As my head clears, I take in the sight of him beneath me. Trembling, sweaty and breathless. Entirely spent. Pliant. Trusting. His eyes just beginning to regain their focus and gazing at me with open adoration.

I carefully pull myself free of him - mumbling apologies when he makes noises of displeasure - and stumble to the loo.

I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror over the sink as I'm wetting a flannel. My pupils are dilated. My skin is flushed and there's irritation on my face and neck from his stubble. My lips are slightly swollen. I am sore and exhausted, but my mind and body are buzzing with the high. In short, I look thoroughly fucked and extremely satisfied.

He has his mobile in his hand when I emerge from the bath, snapping a photo of me before I can object. He takes another as I'm climbing onto the bed before I wrest the phone from him. I see the image of me reaching for him on the screen and scroll back through his recent photos. He tried to take a few "selfies" while I was in the loo, but he could quite stretch his arm far enough to get the entire pornographic image he seemed to be aiming for. I tap back to camera mode, sit back and snap a quick photo before tossing it on the bedside table. 

As I set about cleaning semen from him, a thought occurs to me. "Do you have any videos on your mobile?" I have some video files in my journal amid the pictures, but they are mostly of the short, unenlightening tourist variety. The bell ringing in the main square of Venice. Part of a street musician's routine somewhere in France. I have even fewer videos on my phone and two of them are of Henry playing with Grace yesterday.

"Are you asking if I've ever filmed us having sex?"

"The thought did occur to me."

He chuckles and reaches for my hand as I finish. "I have a couple on my mobile - hidden, of course. I think you downloaded them to your laptop, but you must have hidden them as well."

It makes sense that Henry would hide pornographic videos and photos on his mobile. It may be password-protected, but anybody could crack the password he used as it is our marriage date. Adding a layer of security makes finding such illicit content a bit harder. And since his password is so simple, it is unlikely anyone breaking into his mobile would think he was capable of more advanced security measures, which is really quite clever. But why did I hide the same files on my laptop? I have plenty of pornographic images that are accessed easily enough. Henry is the only person other than me who would have access to my files.

He must realize the direction of my thoughts because he explains. "You were working very closely with Lillian. You hid a lot of the contents of your laptop every time you met her so she wouldn't stumble on anything salacious. You probably missed some files when you were reversing the process."

And then forgot about them entirely. Simply hiding files isn't very secure and they are easily uncovered...as long as the person looking for them knows what they are looking for.

Henry pries the flannel from my hand. "Go."

He knows me very well, I think as I reach for my dressing gown.

****************

I try three different folders before I find it. A hidden folder containing three video files. I play the first one, belatedly remembering to turn the volume down when Grace wanders into the kitchen curiously. In the video, I am laying alone in the middle of the bed, slowly wanking while Henry occasionally makes lewd comments from behind the camera.

Grace rears up and puts her front paws on my thigh, sniffing at the table in search of food. I rub her back with my left hand and mute the sound entirely before the noises coming from the laptop get too uninhibited.

There's nothing particularly noteworthy about this video - though it's obvious why Henry would hide it on his mobile. I scroll through the video, watching my hands blur between my spread legs. The image zooms in as I orgasm and I imagine Henry watching this in the hospital loo during break - on mute as I am watching it now - and having a wank. No, that's not right. He would watch it after his shift ended - probably in the car - teasing himself with the preview of what might happen later if he plays his cards right.

Grace wanders off, bored with me, and I turn the sound back on.

The second video is obviously older than the first. Taken in a hotel room. His half erect cock bobs into view as he is setting up the phone. I am in the background, sprawled naked among plush pillows on the bed.

The problem with amateur porn, I think, is that it is unedited. I scroll through the rather lengthy foreplay and fellatio, stopping once I reach the moment of penetration. My lower body is elevated by pillows, my limbs wrapped around him as he slowly thrusts. The heavy breathing and slick sounds of copulation are punctuated by an occasional whimper, moan or muffled murmur.

I increase the speed of play through an impressive amount of slow, steady fucking. Henry's stamina really is exceptional. I slow the play again when we change positions. I am curled in a near fetal position, my exertion reddened face pressed into the sheets. My hips are still propped up by the pillows, which are no doubt providing much needed friction. Henry is crouched over me, whispering heatedly in my ear and kissing wetly at my shoulders and neck. The camera is far away, but I can see my muscles working. I am mindlessly rutting against the pillow, so close to orgasm that I am probably hardly aware of myself anymore, let alone the man fucking me.

It doesn't take much longer for me to come, and when I do it is with an abandoned cry, clawing at the sheets. He groans and follows not long after.

I speed through the leisurely aftermath. He is obviously talking to me, but I haven't been able to make out any of the other things he's said to me in the video. I will have to locate some headphones and try to isolate sounds later.

The third video is similar to the second but inversed. I forward through the foreplay and preparation - which isn't as drawn out - until he is braced on his hands and knees, legs spread wide, his cock bobbing with my thrusts. It looks painfully hard, but neither of us touches it. He thrusts back against me, arching, his incoherent moans broken by the occasional "please...Will..."

I don't forward through this part. I watch the way his fingers clench in the sheets. The way his eyes close and his mouth opens with each helpless sound. The way he pushes eagerly back into me, uncaring that I am gripping him so tightly that my hands are no doubt leaving bruises on his hips. I watch him lose coherence - his pleas becoming monosyllabic, plaintive grunts. 

When he finally attempts reaching for his cock, he is rewarded with a powerful thrust that nearly topples him face first into the mattress. He whines in clear frustration and returns to his former position.

This is the game, I realize. Either he is not allowed to come yet, or he is not allowed to touch himself.

I may not have a wide range of sexual experience - the number of partners I've had in my life doesn't even reach double digits - and I've had even less opportunity to observe the encounters I've had from this perspective. But I know something is wrong before I see myself pull out, swearing and frustrated.

Henry turns to me, shaking, and tries to soothe me. We are both panting with exertion and clearly painfully hard. He kisses my cheeks and lips, murmuring something the microphone doesn't pick up. I shake my head and whisper something back.

The next part is slower. Once our trembling subsides a bit, our kisses become more impassioned. He moans as I bury my face in his neck and curls a fist in my hair. He lies on his back and I explore his body with hands, lips and tongue. As if we have all the time in the world and are not already desperate to finish. Both of us are still ignoring our straining erections. He writhes and arches into my touch, whispering my name reverently between curses and pleas. He groans when my right hand disappears between his legs, obviously pushing fingers inside him. He spreads his thighs and thrusts into the air. I am speaking low in his ear. The microphone only picks up a few words, but it is enough to tell that whatever I am saying is filthy. He is moaning incoherently.

When his movements start faltering and his moans turn to breathless grunts, I stuff a pillow beneath his hips and thrust back inside. He makes noises that in any other context could be mistaken for pain and claws at me.

I don't realize the mistake I've made until Grace reappears beside me. I jab the "mute" button, but not fast enough to cut off my orgasmic shout.

She whines and paws my leg.

I sigh and lift her into my lap. "Honestly, Grace, as nice as your obvious devotion to my safety and well-being is, you need to learn that not everything..."

I am cut off when she licks my face so enthusiastically that her tongue briefly darts into my open mouth. I splutter and wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand. She stares expectantly.

"Right," I mutter, being careful not to open my mouth too far. "We can work on that later." I scratch behind her ears and she settles, leaning into my hands with contented little grunts.

The video on the screen has stopped and the final image of me reaching to shut off the mobile while Henry catches his breath - both of us looking exhausted - is familiar. I realize the video immediately precedes one of the images from the honeymoon. The one I took of him post-coital and covered in his own semen. I wonder which pictures correlate with the other two videos.

My mobile buzzes - the vibration against the kitchen table making Grace jump. It doesn't seem enough to elicit any complaint from her, however.

The message is from Henry. 'Come back to bed?' 

It's getting late, I realize. And it's Sunday. He has to work in the morning. I shoo Grace back to her bed and return to the bedroom. 

Henry smiles sleepily as I climb beneath the covers, a bit smug. His hands snake possessively beneath my dressing gown as I press in close to his invitingly warm body.

"I suppose you're not tired after your late start this morning," he murmurs.

"No."

"Mmm." He kisses me lazily, slowly. "My fault, I suppose, for letting you stay in bed so late."

He tastes like toothpaste. I relax and let him lead. The kisses give way to soft presses of his lips against my face and the occasional brush of his nose against my skin. When even that stops and he lies back, just looking at me, his fingers continue to move - drawing patterns on my hip and lower back. Sensual, but not sexual. Comforting. Grounding.

The overwhelming adoration in his eyes is tinged with worry and I marvel again at his willingness to live like this. In constant fear. In hiding. Caring for someone who barely recognizes him.

What happens when we step off the carousel?

"Thank you."

"What for, darling?"

I'm not really sure. The words sort of tumbled out of my mouth without forethought. For Grace, maybe. For telling me the truth even though it terrifies him. For caring for me. "Everything."

He reaches for my hand, squeezing it and bringing it to his mouth so he can press a kiss into my palm. "I love you," he breathes.

"I..." I hesitate. I may have felt the emotions before, but I have never been any good at saying the words. They are too perfunctory. Shallow. Meaningless. Insufficient.

"It's okay," he whispers. "I know." He is resigned to this too, I realize. To never hearing the sentiments he bestows upon me so freely reciprocated. He must sense my distress at this thought because he adds "I know you love me, sweetheart. You have your own ways of showing it. You don't need to say the words."

A quote rises to the forefront of my mind. "Doubt that the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move his aides. Doubt the truth to be a liar."

"But never doubt that I love," he finishes softly. He smiles a slow, genuine smile and draws my arm around his waist. "Stay until I fall asleep," he murmurs. "And promise you'll be back before dawn."

I nod and press close to him.

It isn't long before his breathing deepens and his body relaxes, his arm around me growing heavy. I gently untangle myself from him and slip back into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is, of course, from Hamlet. Because they're both well versed in Shakespeare. Especially that play. ;)


	24. Day 5, Part 7 (or early morning on Day 6)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my wonderful readers, who continue to encourage me to keep writing and improving.

I lose track of time as I am searching through data on accidental deaths in the London area, looking for ones just bizarre enough to be potentially tied to Gruener. I can see why my journal notes the possibility that this is all paranoia. There is no pattern to the killings I have already identified, so literally any death in the entirety of London has the potential to be one of his murders. And I can't even prove he was connected to the murders he claims to have committed. 

Sometime before 2 A.M. I contemplate the collection of tea in the cabinet near the sink. Bags of plain Ceylon, chamomile, two herbals - one of which that claims to naturally relieve headaches - and good old Twining's breakfast, plus a tin of the Earl Grey blend in loose leaf. I contemplate the herbals, decide I will probably not be sleeping anytime soon anyway, and grab one of the Ceylon.

As I'm waiting for the kettle to boil, I pick up the jar of honey my journal claims I collected from my hive, inspecting the label my neighbor helped me design.

When the Queen goes above board. Of course. How could I have missed this?

I remember to stop the kettle before sneaking out to the back garden, careful to keep quiet so I don't wake Grace. Or Henry. I gently lift the roof of the hive and shine the torchlight on my mobile onto the crown board. There is a memory stick above the board. Brilliant.

I sneak back into the house, listen for any signs that either husband or dog heard me and, hearing only soft snoring from Grace's bed, settle back in front of the laptop.

The drive is password protected, confirming that whatever data I put on it was intended to be for my eyes only. The password would have to be something only I would know and that I would reliably remember. In other words, something from before the accident. Probably not complicated. I must have left another clue somewhere.

I go back to the entry where John provided the "above board" clue. I suspect this trip into my mind palace never really happened. I designed it just as I designed the label on the honey pot: to lead me to the stick. But there doesn't seem to be anything more to the entry. Nothing that would point to a password. Unless...

I could have chosen anyone to deliver this message. Why John? Was it simply habit? Convenience? Or is John himself the clue?

Of course. 

I type "Hamish" into the prompt and the drive opens to reveal a near identical copy of the journal on my laptop, starting with the honeymoon photos.

I scroll until I find a sentence I know I didn't read this morning.

'I know Henry is lying to me, but I don't know the extent of his deception. Which is why I have duplicated my journal entries from this date forward here. I suspect he is editing the original file. The contents of this drive should prove it.'

Right. I'm going to need that tea.

***********

It is half past three in the morning and my mind is racing in frantic circles. All my experiments to prove that the drug Henry gives me causes my symptoms instead of treating them have been inconclusive. But I didn't know about the tests when I took the evening dose hours ago. I don't feel confused and I did not have any trouble recalling the events of this past day when I added them to the official, complete journal. I remember experiencing confusion and partial memory loss after returning to bed this morning, however, and wonder if sleep plays a necessary part in the amnesic effects. 

Is that the real reason I stayed awake for days before? Not to track Gruener, but to retain my memories? Does Gruener even exist or did I invent him so I would have an excuse to stay awake - solving a case. Henry said he never met Gruener - he simply knows what I told him.

I look at the pictures of Gruener again and recall the seemingly effortless way Moriarty created an entire identity for himself and convinced everybody that he was really Richard Brook. Was Gruener only a figment of my imagination? Lestrade obviously believes he exists, but...is that because I convinced him? Because I needed him to play a part in reinforcing this charade?

A search for Gruener only confirms what I already knew. He has little history and no presence to speak of. There is a flat in London leased under his name and a mobile number. I consider sending him a message anonymously, but I can't really see that accomplishing anything or providing me any useful data.

I return to my as-of-yet fruitless experiments with the pill and my suspicions that Henry is lying to me. Obviously he was lying. He keeps the details of this case from me most days. But now that I'm not even certain of Gruener's existence I have to wonder if he even knows what the truth is himself. Have I drawn him into my paranoid delusion with me?

As far as the drug and its effects...everything that I have learned about Henry, our relationship and these past few months together suggests it is quite possible he would induce amnesia symptoms in me to prevent me from learning the truth. He would see it as an act of compassion and tell himself that his fears of me leaving him - assuming I am correct in that deduction - have nothing whatever to do with it. He would believe he was protecting me from Gruener and from myself. He would be lying to himself just as much as he is to me.

Lillian is testing the pills I have managed to smuggle to her. Her results will prove whether or not this theory is correct soon enough. But knowing that is little comfort as I am faced with the possibility that I was given a drug this evening designed to erase my memories.

Is that even possible? The drug would have to be custom made, certainly. Probably some sort of derivative of benzodiazepine. But given my unsuccessful efforts to prove this so far, it is possible my amnesia - bizarre as it may be - is real and the pills are exactly what Henry's articles and my notes describe: an experimental nootropic. 

There is a way to test it, I realize, without having to wait for the result of Lillian's test. My memories became muddled after a short period of sleep this morning. Or yesterday morning, rather. As unnerving as the possibility of losing my memories is, the thought of not knowing why I am losing them is far worse. I have spent the past eight months a sort of prisoner to my own mind. Proving once and for all this one part of the mystery might give me a small degree of power over my current situation - even if it means proving my hypothesis wrong. Any truth is better than infinite doubt.

But first I have to finish entries to both journals and return the stick to the hive. I debate for a bit whether I should mention Gruener in this secret journal. If he is a ghost, there is no point to such an exercise. If he is real, then he is a danger to me and everyone I love and knowing about him without being properly briefed on the care with which the investigation needs to be handled to avoid revealing my current location and identity could only increase the risk that someone will get hurt. If he killed Mary...if Rosie became an orphan because of my entirely preventable and careless behavior I could never forgive myself.

I decide to just leave it for now. Henry is right - I must focus on getting well before I can be effective in solving the Gruener case. If there is indeed one to solve.

I copy my entry - rather brief with just my observations on Henry and Grace and my ruminations on love and our relationship - into this duplicate journal, adding my intention to test the effects of the pill once again. After I carefully return the stick to its hiding place, I add a note to the official entry to be sure to check the hive tomorrow as I have neglected to check it today. I can't guarantee I will follow these instructions, but I can try to at least increase my odds of finding the stick.

It is half past four by the time I climb into bed beside Henry. I contemplate him for a while in the dim light of the bedroom. The lines that had seemed permanently etched in his forehead earlier are gone now - his face entirely relaxed in sleep. He looks younger. Innocent. If I didn't think the flash would wake him, I would retrieve my mobile and take a picture.

I wonder how many nights I have spent doing this. Watched him sleep. Traced the lines of his face and body with my eyes hungrily. Desperate to remember and afraid if I sleep everything will be erased. 

I am not afraid now. Whatever happens will merely prove or disprove my hypothesis. Once I have this question answered, I can focus on another part of this mystery.

I just need to sleep. Only for a few hours.

I close my eyes, take a few slow breaths, and relax.

**************  
Day 6

An alarm shakes me into alertness. Was I sleeping? I don't remember falling asleep.

As I am getting my bearings, the man beside me groans and rolls away from me. The alarm is silenced.

'Henry,' I think as the fog of sleep recedes from my mind. 'His name is Henry and he is my husband.'

I remember. The pill isn't making me forget.

I feel a rush of relief and, in my enthusiasm, give in to the impulse to roll on top of my startled husband and muffle his protests with a kiss. We both have morning breath - although mine is masked somewhat by that last cup of tea - and bristle on our faces, but I don't care. I twist my fingers in his hair and relish the tiny whimpering noises he makes.

"You remember," he gasps when I let up, blinking up at me in wonder.

I hum an affirmative and kiss along the curve of his jaw.

"Did you sleep at all," he asks, his voice hitching slightly.

I prop myself on my elbows over him, letting my lower body pin him to the mattress. "Enough."

He groans and arches languidly beneath me. "I have to get ready for work," he murmurs between lazy kisses, utterly lacking in conviction.

"You can be late today."

He laughs lightly. "Oh, I can, can I?"

A furry head pops into view beside us just then and Grace makes a noise that isn't quite a bark right in my ear.

I groan. Henry laughs and reaches to pat my hip. I take the direction and roll from him.

Grace scampers away excitedly before Henry is fully out of bed and I eye the bruises and scratches on his body fresh from yesterday as he pulls on clothing, debating whether I should ask him to close the bedroom door and finish what we started. 

He leans over me and kisses my cheek. "I'll take her for a quick walk. If you put food in her dish and refresh her water, I can meet you in the shower in a half hour." He smiles naughtily at me before hurrying after Grace, who I can hear pacing impatiently by the door.

****************

The honey jar on the kitchen table may not be from the hive in the back garden, but it is fresh and locally cultivated. The thick, sweet syrup also nicely counters the bitter aftertaste of semen.

Henry gulps the last of his morning tea and loads his dirty dishes in the washer. "I really am going to be late," he mutters. He bends to kiss my forehead. "I'll call you later."

He starts to move away, but I catch his arm and pull him back toward me, reaching to thumb away a bit of shaving cream he missed behind his ear. 

He smiles. "You sure you're okay?"

"Wonderful."

He strokes my cheek, brushes his nose against mine and places a careful kiss to the top of my head beside the scar hidden beneath my hair before pulling away with obvious reluctance.

Grace follows him and sits by the door whining as his car pulls away outside.

"It's all right, love. He'll be back."

She whimpers, obviously not content with this situation. I guess I know where I rank in her world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote "any truth is better than infinite doubt" is from one of my favorite Sherlock Holmes stories: "The Adventure of the Yellow Face", which was the origin of the infamous "Norbury" reference.


	25. Day 6, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always try to get a head start on the chapter AFTER the one I'm posting, but life has been so crazy lately that I haven't had much time to write this month - and when I have had time, I seem to always be interrupted by something. So I literally just finished THIS chapter today. I'm hoping I will find more time to write this month. Hopefully the next chapter will be longer?

This new result in my experiment - while encouraging - doesn't necessarily prove anything. The previous results I've noted in my journal are too inconsistent with possible unknown variables. However, the only explanation that seems to fit the date I have collected in my journals so far is that my condition - bizarre as it may be - is real and all of my theories about the drug causing my symptoms instead of treating them are the product of paranoia or boredom. 

I still don't know whether Gruener himself is a product of my delusions or a real threat, but until my condition improves that distinction is relatively unimportant.

No. He must be real. I wouldn't fake my own death and force an innocent bystander to do the same unless the situation was truly dire.

As for any other discrepancies between the two versions of my notes, they are most likely the result of my efforts to solve the case of my missing memories.

As I am reviewing all the ways in which the journals differ, I realize I have hidden the three pornographic videos I found last night on the memory stick as well. This seems odd given that the reasoning behind hiding them on my laptop was to prevent my neighbor from stumbling across them accidentally. What reason could I possibly have to hide them on a drive only I know about?

In comparing them, I realize one of the files is larger than its corresponding file on my laptop. Only by a few kilobytes, but it is significant enough that it cannot mean nothing.

It is the video of me wanking. I locate some headphones so I can properly analyze the video this time and watch both copies with careful attention. This time I can clearly hear Henry's words. He is directing me, encouraging me, his voice low and dripping with sexual promise as he describes in lurid detail the things he wants to do to me.

Once I have watched each copy of the video individually, I locate the video editing software on my laptop and play them simultaneously. There is no discernable difference between the copies. Nothing to explain the difference in file size.

Unless the difference isn't in the video itself. 

When I was a boy I amused myself with all manner of codes and methods of secretly sending messages. At University I learned how to utilize those skills in ways better suited to the digital age. There was very little practical use for it, but I did once attach hidden text to the photos of professors I found especially tedious on the University's website as a form of catharsis. Whether this was how it was discovered that one of them was having an affair with a student remains unclear.

A simple hidden text message would explain why the difference between file sizes is so small.

There is no program specifically designed to attach message in this manner on the laptop, but I wouldn't have needed one. The method of using a command prompt to hide text in an image is crude and the result is inelegant, but it doesn't require any non-standard software. 

I open the video using a text reader. It takes a bloody age and generates a dauntingly long document seemingly full of nonsense strings of characters. I scroll to the bottom and am rewarded with a block of text in perfectly legible English.

'I suspect John Watson is alive. I can find no evidence of his demise. No official certificate of death, no copy of the coroner's report or obituary besides my own. Moreover, the accident report does not seem consistent with the sort of fatal injuries described in the coroner's report. I cannot prove this theory, nor can I understand the possible motivation behind such a lie, but the idea that I have run away from London and changed my name to escape anything that might remind me of my old life because I blame myself for his death seems absurd.

'Tonight I plan to test my hypothesis that the pill Henry gives me is causing my memory loss instead of treating it. If I am correct, I hope to confront him tomorrow and get some answers.'

I check the modification date on the file. Last Tuesday. The day my notes say I hid the evening dose of my medicine in the linen cupboard. Wednesday morning I woke up even more confused than ever and didn't find the memory stick for more than twenty-four hours. And I didn't find this hidden message for nearly a week.

Because I was wrong. The pill is not causing my symptoms. It can't be. 

Am I sabotaging my best hope of getting my memories back with all my chasing of conspiracies?

I close my eyes and rub at my temple, where a headache is beginning to form, all the conflicting data from both journals swirling maddeningly through my mind.

'I have lost control over everything. Even the places in my head.'

Did I say that or did I read it somewhere?

I won't have proof that the drug is not causing my symptoms until Lillian finishes testing it, but it is looking increasingly like the data does not support that hypothesis. Which makes most of the data I have collected on this drive useless. Little more than desperate attempts to uncover the truth Henry is keeping from me. The truth it turns out I have been keeping from myself in order to keep everyone - including Henry - safe. I understand the need for the lies, but this paranoia is the inevitable result. I have started to question whether *anything* is true.

I review the coroner's report, all the relevant data in my notes and my text message history. Even if I can't find an official copy of the coroner's report, the proof of John's death is too overwhelming to ignore. I can't imagine what would possess me to write that message. I text Molly, requesting an official copy of the report, then go into my mind palace.

The entire front end of the car is caved in, the bonnet bent sharply backward to expose the smoking engine. I walk around to the passenger side, finding the battered door open and climb gingerly into the seat.

"You think you missed something," John says, appearing in the driver's seat as I'm taking in the details, matching them against the insurance photos and accident report. 

"Maybe," I reply, even though it wasn't a question. "I just need to go over the details. My notes say I've dreamt about this many times in the past few months, but my dreams can't possibly be based on my memory of the accident. My injury..." I feel the scar on my head gingerly. "I must have been knocked unconscious by the impact."

"Even if you were conscious, you were concussed," John agrees. "Anything you observed in that state could hardly be considered reliable. Do you remember anything that came *before* the impact?"

I close my eyes and try to recall those brief moments. "Something moved. On the road, beside us."

"A car?"

"Larger. A truck, perhaps." In my mind's eye, I see a blurry shadow moving toward the car. Too fast. I lunge instinctively toward John. "Oh." I open my eyes to find my hand clutching the steering wheel.

"You saw it before I did. You forced me to swerve to avoid it."

I turn to the passenger door, identifying the spot where my head hit the window. "I tried," I murmur. "But it happened too fast. The impact threw me back."

"So there *was* another car. Gruener was telling the truth?"

I look at John, sitting calmly in the spot where he was killed.

"Something is wrong," he prompts. "You can sense it. What is it?"

I scan the area around him, matching it against the data I've collected. There is blood on the steering wheel and deflated air bag. I know there is blood on the seat as well, but...

"There's not enough blood. You couldn't have bled out here."

"There's also nothing that could have caused the wound," John adds. "Didn't your husband say I bled out on the way to hospital?"

Damn. He's right. That would explain both the lack of evidence and the less than substantial amount of blood. But something else is wrong.

"The window," I blurt as I see it. "Gruener said he reached through the window, but the window is intact!"

John looks at the open driver's door where the window is closed and - despite an impressive web of cracks - too intact for anyone to have reached through. "Maybe he opened the door," he offers.

"If he had he would have said that. He said he reached through the window. He's too meticulous to have made a mistake that obvious."

"Unless he wasn't there."

I can feel my shoulders sagging at the thought. "He could uncover the cause of death, but not the exact *time*. He's leading me on. He didn't kill you."

"Assuming he really exists."

My head throbs. "He must exist! Even I could not construct a delusion this elaborate!"

John's hand reaches to squeeze mine. "We've been through this," he says gently. "You have all the answers. You just need to find them."

"And what happens then? Will I go back to London? Will I become bored and start using again?"

John's expression doesn't change. "You don't want your condition to improve."

He isn't asking. Merely voicing a theory that has occurred to me already. 

I am interrupted before I can reply by Grace whining. I blink down at her, slightly dazed by the abrupt shift in my surroundings, and she blinks back expectantly.

"Time for another wee is it?"

She growls.

"Right."

****************

My mobile rings as I'm watching her sniff the base of the tree. It is Henry. I am only slightly surprised when I answer and his face pops on the screen in a video call.

He smiles warmly. "Hello, darling. How are you feeling?"

I debate lying, but realize this is probably why I am on video instead of simply voice. He will know. "Just a bit of a headache."

"Just a headache? No nausea? Dizziness?"

"No."

He relaxes a bit. "You're probably just working too hard then. Have you tried anything yet? Paracetamol? Tea? Hot bath?"

"Not yet."

"Are you outside without a coat?"

"Just for a minute. Grace had to wee." I am beginning to shiver though, so as she finishes I coax her back toward the house.

"Then I definitely recommend the tea or the bath to warm up."

I am too busy trying to get Grace through the door and take her leash off without disconnecting him to respond.

"Do you have any new leads?"

"Just possible proof that Gruener isn't the prolific murderer he wants me to believe he is."

"Oh?"

"He couldn't have killed John in the manner he described."

Henry sighs. "Well, you always suspected he was lying to you about that one just to scare you. You don't think he was lying about all the rest, do you?"

"No. Maybe. The way he describes the killings...he *has* to have killed before. But I cannot prove one way or another that he is responsible for anything beyond what was sanctioned by the government. He could simply be collecting data on accidental, violent deaths and using his previous experiences as an assasin to concoct a fantasy that those people were his victims."

Henry is beginning to look worried. "Darling, I think you should take a break."

'You once stayed awake for three days...you had driven yourself half mad.'

I am on the verge of a breakthrough on the case. I can feel it. But my health - the treatment of my condition - is just as important a part of the solution. Any setbacks could be devastating.

"I will."

"Now," he says firmly. "Go take something for your headache and call me if it doesn't get any better."

I nod, biting back the instinct to say something snide like 'yes, sir.' His concern for me may make him tedious at times, but it is genuine.

"Take Gracie for a walk next time. The fresh air would do you good."

"Mmm."

"And remember your coat."

'Yes, dad,' I think, then wonder if my parents know I'm still alive. Surely they must if Mycroft does. Have they met Henry?

"Were my parents at our wedding?"

Henry blinks, thrown by this shift in the conversation. But only momentarily. Like John, he seems to have accepted that my mind works at a different speed than his and the resulting apparent non-sequiturs in conversations are the result of a perfectly reasonable train of logic he is simply not privy to. "Yes, they were witnesses. It wasn't much of a ceremony, but your mother cried."

"So they know I'm alive?"

Understanding that borders on relief lights Henry's face. "Ah. Yes. But for your protection as well as theirs that is the extent of their knowledge." His voice is low, as if he is concerned he might be overheard even though he appears to be in a private office. He doesn't need to clarify any further. In order to maintain the illusion of my death, nobody can know who or where I am now. Except Mycroft of course as he probably arranged it.

"I have to get back to work," Henry says reluctantly. "Call me if the headaches get any worse?"

I nod and we both ring off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The details about hiding coded messages in pictures - steganography - mostly came from my own research into ways "Will" could hide information in plain sight and conversations with a coworker whose child was once into steganography. I know it works because I tested it on one of the additional pieces Megabat made for me - John's obituary - to insert the message "#JohnLives" (not long enough to affect the size of the file, but...). 
> 
> Again, the quote about losing control of the places in one's own head is from "The Girl on the Train".

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Of Dubious and Questionable Memory - Artwork](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524639) by [Megabat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat)
  * [Additional materials for Of Dubious and Questionable Memory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14371785) by [diandrahollman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diandrahollman/pseuds/diandrahollman), [Megabat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat)




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